


Down to Earth

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A lot of thoughts about parents and losing folks, Gen, Guardians and Ravagers team up, Like, M/M, Peter Feels, Peter goes home, Sporadic Updates, Team as Family, Tony Feels, another WIP for the pile, glacially slow, slowburn, to get Peter back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how far you run, home is the place you run back to.</p><p>For Peter Quill, home has come in many shapes and sizes: his grandpa's house, the <em>Eclector</em>, the <em>Milano</em>. But now Xandar is saved, and the Guardians established as fully-fledged heroes. Peter's thoughts turn to another home, one orbiting a sun a thousand lightyears away.</p><p>Tony Stark couldn't be more different. He's had his run-in with space, and still bears the scars - mental ones, at least - from the Portal Incident. He wants nothing more to do with aliens, UFOs, or the wider universe at large. Of course, that's when Loki's scepter starts acting up again. And a man falls out of the sky who claims he hasn't seen Earth in twenty-seven years...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Advance warning - I'm picking and choosing from the MCU canon, and taking a lot of liberties. Mostly because AoU was an abomination. If that puts you off, don't read any further!**

In Peter’s experience, all terrible ideas start with a good one. And by ‘good’ he doesn’t mean smart, practical, or even effective. He means ‘good’ the way his mom taught him. The sort of good that made him fight the older boys to stop them smushing frogs with sticks, get his ass kicked, and come back for more.

Most days, the frog got squished anyway. But sometimes it survived. Sometimes it plopped into the creek, leaving a cool amphibian kiss on the gravel-pitted cup of Peter’s grazed palms. There was never any thanks or recognition. But Peter didn’t care. One less act of cruelty in an apathetic world made the black eyes worth it.

You’d think the expansion of his horizons beyond the blue Terran sky would obliterate such sentimentality. Yondu certainly hoped so – which meant he was setting himself up for disappointment. Because now, aged thirty-something (it's hard to keep track, what with variable transgalactic timescales) Peter has yet to blossom into the Ravager-boss his sometime-captain groomed him to be.

He’s a thief, sure. A scoundrel, definitely. Gamora chews him out at least once a week for bringing girls back to (and fucking the same girls in various positions all over) the _Milano_. He can imagine her furious chiding now. _“This isn’t just your ship anymore Quill; at least confine your ‘Jackson Pollocks’ to your room.”_

But he’s also a hero, and that’s one thing Yondu could never abide.

Luckily, Peter hasn’t seen hide nor hair of that jackass since depositing a decoy orb in his greedy blue mitts. If he’d faced a noogie and a mocking laugh whenever he said something that veered towards sentimental on the Galleon Bridge, a plan as emotive as the one currently forming in his brain, smooth and easy as clay shaped on the wheel, would earn him an arrow through the throat.

Peter twiddles his thumbs while he waits for his new crew to slope in. He called this meeting an hour before he actually wanted them to congregate. Three months in their company has taught him that this is the approximate amount of time it takes for his team to quit faffing and actually heed a command – especially when that command is deemed non-essential, mundane, or routine.

The Guardians expect Peter to lay out suggestions for their next course: occupied territories in need of liberation, bank vaults in need of emptying. They’ll be disappointed. But, Peter hopes, they will understand.

***

It’s a rare day when Tony Stark thinks of his mother.

His father breaches his mind more often. He can’t get rid of him – the man’s a virus: a lingering case of the snuffles that never quite relinquishes its grip but rarely squeezes him tight enough to justify proactive methods of prevention.

Howard Stark lives on in his logo, emblazoned in five hundred thousand LEDs over the tower’s front-facing balustrade. He lives in the new self-declared leader of Tony’s time-bomb-slash-team (whose abs are quite frankly ridiculous, and who hurts Tony’s eyes with his perfection if he looks at him too long). And he lives in the face in the mirror. That likeness is the most troubling, if only because it grows with every passing day.

In the years he spent suffering Howard’s neglect and the cold substitute-fatherhood of Harvard’s engineering department, Tony never gave much thought to aging. The young never do. But now, as he strokes the peppery streaks silvering his temples and plucks a few errant hairs from his nose, he can’t help but peer into the mirror’s slippery depths and imagine himself as a wart on the surface of time: a boy who never grew old.

Not physically, obviously. He’s nearing the age his parents were when they had their accident. And while his father’s opinions on how Tony led his life never have held much sway on him – or rather, Tony does his damnedest not to let them – as he strokes his stubbled, lined face and pulls out the floss he wonders what his mother would say if she saw him now.

Tony Stark, destroyer of America’s enemies. Tony Stark, weapons warlord. Tony Stark, murderer of millions.

Then Tony Stark the victim; Tony Stark the self-made hero; Tony Stark the Iron Man.

Would she see the brand-name and the cheap redemption story, like everyone else? Or would she excavate those coagulated strata of _genius billionaire playboy philanthropist_ , and find the lost boy beneath? That boy still stands petrified beneath a starry night sky. Only nowadays, it’s not because of the wonders that might be out there, but the horrors he’s seen lurking in its depths.

Even a year later, the memory’s sharp as acid. The portal shrinks like water down a plughole. He realizes that the darkness is lit only by the burning Chitauri hoard, and that when those fires extinguish – as all fires inevitably do – there will be nothing. Just Tony, alone in an infinity of long-dead stars.

Tony shudders. Floss scrapes between his teeth, biting the gum. It barely bleeds – just a speck really. But the taste of copper is so strong, inundating his mouth and overwhelming the toothpaste-fresh mintiness, the Tony has to spit before he gags.

No. Space is best left untampered with – the Tesseract incident has taught him that. Leave the astrophysics for Bruce and Thor’s girlfriend. Tony’s gonna keep his vision focused where it belongs: on clean energy, peacekeeping, and Earth.

For all its myriad flaws and failings, he’ll never leave his planet again.

***

Peter likes to consider himself a good judge of character. But he should’ve known that the Guardians, who’re a contrary and antagonistic bunch of a-holes at the best of times, would defy all predictions.

“I do not understand,” says Drax. “Marking graves with biomatter is logical, as the decaying body will feed the flowers.” He ignores Rocket’s interjecting gag. “But your mother passed decades ago. She has already rotted into the earth.”

During his three-month tenure at the head of the Guardians, Peter has become accustomed to faking smiles. The latest is watertight, albeit a little wavery at the edges. “Drax, buddy. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“But I did say it. Why would you pretend otherwise?” Drax’s eyes narrow with such force that his browbone encroaches on space reserved for his jaw. “Do you mock me, Quill?”

“Nah. Anyone else, and I’d think it was the other way around.”

“I have offended you?” Getting angry takes energy when your opponent’s genuinely ignorant – especially when he dips his bald grey skull to reflect the light from the Milano’s upper decking, and issues a heartfelt “You have my apologies.” Peter sighs, raking a hand through thick ginger curls.

“Don’t worry, buddy.” He pats Drax’s musclebound shoulder. “We’re cool. Just… ix-nay on the odies-bay, huh?”

Drax’s perplexed expression contorts further. Gamora rubs her forehead: a gesture performed with such frequency she must be tempting RSI, or (worse, in Peter’s opinion) wrinkles. Peter’d offer her a massage (or to oil her joints, or whatever else a cybernetic Daughter of Thanos might require to take the edge off). But he suspects his noble offer would be refused – most likely with fists.

“Stop,” she says. “You’re making it worse. Drax, Terran customs are odd, but we should respect them if we respect Quill. Agreed?”

Drax shuffles on his chair, sheepish. Said chair creaks beneath him, and Peter winces on behalf of his upholstery. “Very well.”

Then Rocket takes the opportunity to demonstrate his own opinions on the matter. His laugh is loud, jarring, and fake. “So lemme get this straight,” he jeers, wiping crocodile-tears with a dainty clawtip. “You wanna bust through half a dozen Nova stockades, break intergalactic regulations, and piss of every high-ranking officiate in the quadrant – which, lemme tell ya, I’d usually be all for. But not for a pay-day. Oh no. You wanna do it for a dead humie?”

Peter’s shoulders snap rigid. “That dead humie is my mother.”

“Aw Quill, y’know what I say. _Everyone’s lost folks_. Don’t mean we all gotta die so you can say your bubyes.” Rocket ignores Groot’s warning paps at his knees. The duo perch atop the table, Rocket’s paws clicking on the fresh-wiped metal. Quill had offered to commandeer him a highchair from an offworld nursery, but Rocket’s pride prevented him from accepting help – and so, table it is.

Groot cards Rocket’s fur, big damp eyes glancing between him and Peter. He’s fresh from his pot and childlike – something Peter does his best not to ruminate on. Because if this Groot is barely past his uprooting-phase then that means the old Groot, _their_ Groot, really did sacrifice himself, and it isn’t coming back. Nevertheless, the new Groot – Groot-lite – recognizes the tension in the room.

“I am Groot?” Rocket doesn’t bother to translate. He stares at Quill, beady black eyes unreadable. His mouth is another matter though; rubbery black lips stretch like the grimace on a Halloween mask, revealing a muzzle stuffed with small sharp teeth.

“Okay then, _Star-Lord_. You wanna risk your hide on this dumbass roadtrip? Be my guest. But you’re on yer own.”

Peter scoots his chair back from the table with an earsplitting screech. “Alright,” he says quietly, bypassing Gamora’s attempts to interject, smooth things over, remind them that _they’re a team_ and they _follow Star-Lord’s lead_. He doesn’t want to hear it – and he suspects it’s because deep inside himself, he knows Rocket to be right.

He can’t ask them to do this.

What are the Guardians really? Friends, yes – but friends thrown together by circumstance, not by choice. Sure, Peter cares about them. Sure, he would do anything for them: die for them if it came to that. But he guesses the same doesn’t apply in return. More fool him for thinking any relationship in this galaxy could ever be reciprocal. Hadn’t Yondu taught him that?

_Idiot boy. Don’tchu go gettin’ attached to me or any of mine – it’ll only get ya killed, and on that day there ain’t none of us who’ll shed a tear._

Peter hoped to escape the Ravagers’ brand of brutal individualism when he joined the Guardians. Apparently, that had been wishful thinking.

“I’ll go alone,” he tosses over his shoulder as he climbs the ladder for the cockpit. “I’ll drop you on Xandar, and tell mom you said hi.”

“Peter, wait –“ The upper deck trapdoor shuts in Gamora’s face. Her outstretched hand curls on itself, clawlike, and she spins on Rocket with the expression of a ticked-off harpy.

“Now look what you’ve done!”

Rocket twirls the whiskers on his upper lip. “Let him go. I been fancyin’ a holiday on Xandar anyway.” He strives to look unconcerned. But Gamora has been travelling with him long enough to know he regrets his brusqueness – and that it’ll take more than her glares, Drax’s demands, or Groot’s monosyllabic pleas to make him apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Finally giving this baby an edit and (hopefully) whacking on another chappie. Wish me luck.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I've decided I'm gonna do a chapter-dump of everything I've written so far, uploading one chapter a day. Then this fic can go on a quick hiatus while I some other WIPs out the way. Hope this (and the next two chapters) will give you enough plot to sink your teeth into!**

The drop-off on Xandar occurs in spite of Gamora’s protests. She spends most of the prior week lagging on Peter’s heels as he goes about his chores, trying to convince him not to go alone. But Rocket can be equally stubborn when he sets his mind to it. That means Peter has to match his tenacity or else lose the grudge match – which, as all male-identifying creatures know, entails forfeiting his pride. And given Nova Prime has sent them details for a job – something involving pink-kree slave trafficking in the grimy industrial underbelly of Hrax, which would benefit far more from Gamora’s subterfuge skills than Peter would from her company – Peter insists that she stay.

Gamora being Gamora though, is just as hot-headed as the rest of them. As she’s also endowed with the ability to dislocate every bone in his body with her pinkie alone, Peter decides to compromise.

“Alright,” he gripes. “I’ll wait until you come back. Then we go to Terra. Together. Me and you.” He throws in a wink – classic misdirection. She’s too busy rolling her eyes to realize he’s lying.

“I still think you’re an idiot!” Rocket’s yell echoes through the _Milano_ ’s cramped cavern. He crouches in the adjacent sleeping quarters, scooping his toolkit into mildly more organized piles. Rocket’s gubbins have boobytrapped the _Milano_ ’s floors since the day he moved in. _Emergency tinkering bits_ , he terms them – claiming he keeps them around in case of crisis, so he’ll always have a potential incendiary device on hand. _Painful_ is a more accurate descriptive. That’s used frequently, amidst cusses in every language from A’askavarian to Zatoan as Peter picks broken shards from his heels.

Nobody asked for Rocket’s opinion, so Peter feels justified in ignoring it. He can’t help but notice though, as Rocket swaggers to the door, that some of the tension winding his furry little shoulders earwards had receded.

An a-hole he might be. But he isn’t 100% a dick. He doesn’t relish the thought of his team leader swanning off on a solo into territory that is, by the Andromeda galaxy’s standards, uncharted, hazardous, and strictly forbidden.

To be honest, Peter ain’t looking forwards to it either. But needs must. If he waits for Gamora, he’ll miss the anniversary. He can’t – won’t – do that, not for all the units in the Galaxy.

The idea for this venture has been lodged in his brain for years. Ever since he first wound the dials of an astrodate converter and worked out that he’d been away from Terra for over a decade. But only recently has that faint ghost of a plan begun to crystallize into something concrete and attainable.

Before he opened mom’s present, wrapping paper tissue-thin from age and frequent handling, he’d done his best to avoid thoughts of the world he’d lost. He’d buried himself in hedonism: girls, booze, the thrill of a Ravager hunt across the empty asteroid-cluttered starways. His Walkman formed a delicate spider-thread: the only tether between him and a world a million lightyears away.

Yondu never forbade him from returning to Terra. Not explicitly. After he’d forked over the control codes for the _Milano_ (grumbling the whole time and telling Quill there was still a space reserved for him in the stewpot if he busted his second-favourite ship) Peter could’ve gone anywhere he pleased. He could’ve escaped the Ravagers’ brutal lifestyle there and then. He could’ve run to the Nova Corps and taken a job that would make his mom proud. Or back to Earth to find his granddad: tell him he was okay, that he was alive, that none of this was his fault…

But he hadn’t. Now that Peter has the wherewithal to contemplate why this might be, he’s parsed it down to three potential reasons.

One: Yondu constantly teeters on the brink between _jovial father_ and _abusive boss_. And while dealing with the latter is unpleasant, Peter has lost so many parental figures that he’d clung to him far longer than is healthy.

Two: as morally dubious as it might have been, his life as a space-trawling mercenary-come-pirate had been... fun. Peter will miss the respect and admiration – particularly from the ladies – that magnetizes to the flame stitched on his sleeve.

And three: he’s fucking terrified.

Not of being caught. Although that at least is a logical fear; almost all wormholes to and from the Andromeda galaxy are guarded by various empires and organizations. The Silver Spiral itself houses more than one Nova battalion operating under their prime directive: _zero interference with uncontacted systems_ , a code enforced with violence when necessary. And this isn’t counting the Asgardian eyes trained on Terra. As the only gate to the other nine dimensional planes, Terra is watched on all sides. She’s approachable only under threat of capture, torture, and death.

So how the fuck did Yondu manage it? One thing’s for sure: the old bastard won’t tell him. Not after the troll-doll incident, and not without several tankards of moonshine to loosen his lips.

Anyway, Peter doesn’t want his help. He can figure this out on his own. He’s an adult now; an independent captain of his own crew. While it’s a fair sight smaller than Yondu’s, being housed on a singular M-ship rather than a galleon the size of a city, it’s a start. And as argumentative, grudge-bearing, and occasionally imbecilic as that crew is, he wouldn’t swap them out for all the jewels in the galaxy.

Really, thinks Peter as he ushers the Guardians down the gangramp, claiming he needs to re-ionize the star-mapping navigation gear before their next take-off. He isn’t just doing this alone to keep his teammates out of unnecessary danger. He needs to prove his capability to everyone, himself included.

What’s the point in calling yourself _Star-Lord_ if you can’t brave a little turbulence to return home?

***

The sun always rises.

It’s that kind of stability Tony needs in his life – especially after Pepper breezes out of it, leaving a waft of fresh citrus perfume and a kiss on the cheek. That pervasive sense of freefall is taking over again. He knows it’s unfair to rely on her so much, to make her his anchor. But without her, the starless void lingers at the edges of Tony’s vision, and he feels like he’s drowning on dry land.

And so he drinks. He fights. And he flies.

 _Panic attack_ , says Jarvis. The wry British voice seems unsuited to the words. Tony programmed him to always talk with a haughty air of disgust, but now that his tone mimics what Tony feels towards himself on the inside, he doesn’t find it so amusing. _Sir, perhaps you ought to sit down._

But there’s no time. Because then the Mandarin attacks. Tony gambles everything to stop him – and so very, very nearly loses it. He wins it back again though. That’s what matters, right?

Pepper agrees, and dawn comes. Tony lives a year feeling the sun on his face. And then, abruptly, it vanishes again.

Pepper won’t break up with him for a second time. She’s too kind. So Tony takes it into his own hands. “We’re toxic,” he says, and he can tell from the tears in her eyes that she knows it just as well as he does. “I love you, and I always will. But we gotta stop this. I can’t be your ball and chain.”

“You’re not,” is her immediate answer. Tony’s happy she’s crying, because he’d sure feel stupid if he was the only one. “I promise.”

Technically, she’s right. It’s not him, it’s the reactor. But while Iron Man’s nothing without Tony Stark, Tony’s starting to suspect that Tony Stark’s nothing without Iron Man either. When the reactor’s buried in his chest, Tony can fight back. He can face his nightmares – _open space, vanishing portal, alone and so far from home_ – and emerge victorious.

Without it, he’s vulnerable. _Mortal_. Tony can’t abide that.

And so he gives Pepper as much leave-time as she needs, and returns to his usual vices: alcohol, heroics, flight. It continues, day in and day out. And while the sun always rises, Tony lives in a monochrome world beyond the reach of its glow.

“I’m not your therapist,” Bruce complains. But he’s his friend, and his lab-partner, and he knows what’ll make Tony’s brain click back to its usual gear of quick-witted functionality. “Y’know what? I’m gonna call Nat. Let’s you and me leave New York for a while. We need to get to work on that scepter.”

***

Rocket trails behind the others. This takes effort. Groot’s toddling now, and Drax and Gamora have slowed their paces to match, their towering forms trailing long shadows that cling to the _Milano_ ’s flanks as if afraid to let go. Those shadows are wiser than they are. Can’t they see that Quill’s the sort of doofus who takes Rocket’s posturing to heart?

Honestly, Rocket should wave him on his way. Pinkie deserves everything he gets. Three months in Rocket’s company oughta have taught him that half of what comes outta his mouth is guff, and if it ain’t… Well, more fool him.

But (while he’d gut anyone who dared utter such a thing) Rocket is at heart an animal. Animals are driven by instinct – and right now, Rocket’s is telling him that letting Peter do what he suspects he’s plotting to do, and zoom off into the nearest wormhole, would be a very bad idea.

Who knows how Terrans might’ve evolved in the twenty-odd years Peter’s been missing? Perhaps they’ve all been wiped out by a virus. Or the entire planet’s been vaporized by a passing Chitauri warband, leaving nothing but gas and dust. Perhaps they got smacked by an asteroid and have been shrouded in frigid darkness for a decade, life retreating back to its sparsest, simplest forms. Whatever the answer, Rocket doesn’t want to find out.

This ain’t just any old replaceable humie. This is _his_ humie. And Rocket, as evidenced by the tantrums thrown whenever one of his teammates so much as breathes on his stuff (let alone tries to _tidy_ it) never relinquishes possession of anything without a fight.

“Rocket?” He’s so busy tracking the shape of Quill’s silhouette through the cockpit, backlit by the third and brightest of the Xandarian suns, that the call takes him by surprise. It’s Gamora. His fur, bristling from the sudden jolt of his name, smooths slowly. A danger to him she might not be, but she is glaring, which is just as bladder-squeezing.

She’s suspicious. Of course she is – greenie’s a smart cookie. He should’ve known she’d see through the ruse. “You’re walking slow. What’s going on?”

Drax turns, one thick green finger extended for Groot to cling to should he require a balance-aid. “Are you injured?”

It’s as good a lie as any. Rocket fakes a wince. He rubs the back of his neck, where metal pokes through the fuzz, forever a few degrees cooler than his skin, and contorts his whiskery little face into an expression between irritation and embarrassment. “Cybernetics,” he says. “Y’know how it is.”

Gamora’s eyes widen. Her mouth scrunches for the briefest of seconds – damn _sympathy_ , makes Rocket wanna claw out of his skin – before she tightens her jaw and nods. “Catch up when you can,” comes the verdict.

Perhaps ‘sympathy’ isn’t the most fitting term after all. ‘Empathy’ might be more suitable – not that Rocket’s one for fancy-schmancy vocabulistics. There’s few in this galaxy who truly understand what it means to be torn apart and put back together again, much less repeatedly. But of those who’ve suffered such a fate there’s an enforced kinship. They’re like candleflames drawn together; their nightmare-memories merge as they recognize each other’s pain, both phantom and physical.

Sure enough, when Drax inquires “Shouldn’t we wait for him?” Gamora proves herself an ally by shaking her head so the curtain of sleek purple hair wafts into her eyes.

“No,” she says. “He can come at his own pace.”

It would sound cavalier to any onlooker. Even Groot turns wide, limpid eyes back at him – but he’s amply reassured by a smile and a wave, although Rocket quickly disguises both with a cough when he catches Drax watching. He nods to Gamora in thanks. She nods back, stiff and formal, and turns away.

There. A formulaic exchange between survivors, executed as smoothly as the grind of a well-oiled M-ship engine at blast-off. If Rocket were a better person he might feel guilty for deceiving her.

But hey, he thinks to himself, faking a limp until the trio round the corner – then turning tail and sprinting back up the gangway. That’s just how the galaxy works. Get soft, get squished. Sentiment is deadlier than cyanide. As much as Rocket cares for these strange new _friends_ of his, he can’t let it govern him.

And, unless he wants their band to continue sans-leader, he can’t let it govern Peter either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments; I love 'em.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AAAND there's more.**

Sentiment. Damn bane of Yondu’s life.

It’s everywhere. Whole damn galaxy seething with it. Cute figurines, puppies, small Terrans with wibbly lips and big baby-blues… All of ‘em looking to latch on like a leech and bleed him dry.

Well, they ain’t gonna be successful. Never have been; never will be. Yondu’s proud to claim that he never once coddled Quill like he wanted to, never hugged him or told him he was precious and wanted. Didn’t even mourn him after he left (or at least, not much, and never outside the privacy of his captain’s quarters). He knew better. Out here, _soft_ only gets you _dead_ – especially if you’re boss to a gang of thieves, murderers, and worse.

So, given the amount of effort he puts into acting the bone-headed hardass he most definitely is, it’s a bit of a surprise to slouch out into the _Eclector_ hallways and find himself facing a mutiny.

Yondu blinks. Yawns. Blinks again, in case his eyes are glued shut and he’s actually still dreaming.

Taserface’s grin doesn’t recede. Neither does Half-nut cease twitching, nor Gef lower his weapon – which’d be more menacing if he was holding it the right way up. Either this is a very elaborate prank, or he’s not gonna be finalizing that contract today.

Yondu rubs knuckles over that place between his eyebrows where tension like to gather. Wouldn’t do to get any more wrinkles – not when he’s still a spritely young thing at heart. “Can this wait?” he croaks. “M’ fuckin’ parched.”

His throat scratches from sleep. If this were twenty years back, he’d blame it on the hangover, but it’s been a while since he’s gotten pissed enough to suffer one of those. That’s what captaincy does for you. You dedicate yourself to providing for your boys, keeping ‘em fed and watered (more like liquored, let’s be honest). And what do you get in return? Fuck all. Certainly not respect. Why, if Yondu weren’t such a decent, forgiving type, he’d execute every last one of ‘em right here and now. Might still, if they don’t let him saunter to Mess and fetch himself a drink. “Fuck y’all, for real. This is – what, the third time this month?”

Taserface’s barrel waggles under his nose. “Say yer prayers, Udonta! This time it’s gonna be different!” Yondu hoists an eyebrow. Taserface’s sizzled lips stretch to accommodate his snarl. “I’m serious. Laugh it up, Blue. You ain’t getting’ away this time.”

“Uh-huh.” Yondu fakes another yawn, bigger than the last, showing off his silver-capped molars. “And what’chu gonna do once you won this match, Tazie?”

“What you won’t! Hunt down that fool Terran _son_ of yours, decapitate him, an’ hang his leakin’ body besides yours as the galleon’s figurehead!”

“Yeah!” Gef echoes. “We gonna chop his head off an’ all!”

Taserface’s crosshairs don’t waver from where they’re menacing Yondu’s nostrils, even as he rams an elbow into Gef’s paunch. Gef folds with an ‘oof’. “That’s what I just said!”

Idiots. But, at the end of the day, his idiots. They’d never turn on him for real. This’s just… a lil’ expression of dissatisfaction. Ravagers don’t do anonymous employee surveys, so mutinies are the next best thing.

Yondu blearily squints at his chronometer. Cusses, when he sees the time. “Well, if ya want me to attend the deal that’ll line our pockets for the next year, you’d best hurry up an’ say yer piece. Collector’s only agreed to speak to me – ya know how _particular_ that fruity Ancient gets.”

Lie. Collector never _explicitly_ demands that his dealings with the Ravagers be conducted through Yondu’s person. But regarding his roster of important clients – the Collector, the Broker, Thanos and co. – Yondu prefers to handle ‘em solo. It keeps his mind sharp (for one of the richest men in the Galaxy, the Collector didn’t half like to haggle). And, more importantly, it keeps his boys thinking he’s indispensable.

Yondu likes to imagine that's true regardless of his contacts and their grossing potential. But he knows that in actuality, no boss is ever free from the threat of rebellion. So long as you have power, some sod’ll want it. You can’t trust blood – which is why Yondu doesn't have any. You can’t trust friends – hence Yondu’s slim and selective circle, which has been weeded thinner every decade as bombs go off, M-ship engines falter, and whistles go awry. All that’s left is yourself. And, occasionally, an heir.

Yondu had one of them once. Fat lotta good that’s done him.

Calling the pending debate to a halt, he barges past Taserface – impressive, given the other man’s stature. But Yondu made up for his height with the stubborn-minded juggernautism of a bulldozer. “Y’all best be on Bridge by the time I’m back,” he says, raising a flat palm in the Ravager signal for _fall out_. “If you ain’t pulled yer heads out yer asses by then, you’ll get what’s comin’ to you. And don’t think I can’t squeeze out a whistle before ya shoot me in the back, Half-nut; I see what’cher thinkin’.”

Half-nut, quailing under Taserface’s glare, lowers his pistol with a sheepish giggle. “Sorry cap’n,” he says instinctively. Then yelps as Taserface smacks him on the crown. His index pinches, squeezing off a shot that almost amputates his own toe. Idiot. Yondu thought Gef was the only dolt fool enough to never take his finger out of the trigger-guard.

“And don’t’chu break my ship!” he calls as he rounds the corner, their glares beating on his nape like sun off a well-oiled back. “Else yer payin’ for it!”

Sure, plasma-shot only damages biotic tissue, but Yondu ain’t taking chances. _Eclector_ ’s his girl. Old, crumbly, crusty, in need of a rehaul, a new-fangled fusion engine, a matter converter that doesn’t _bloop_ at odd hours of the night circle, and a damn good scrubbing; but his. Captains tend to go down with their ships – not because of any ideas regarding noble self-sacrifice and all that bullcrap, but simply because the Bridge is where they’ll be when the flak peppers their shields, and that’s first to go once those shields fail. As such, Yondu accepted a long time ago that he’ll die up here. Drifting through the bleak black abyss with metal on all sides, dislocated from soil and life and vegetation and all things he used to be able to feel. On days like this – when his crew’s ornery, his brain’s frazzled and tired, and against all odds and despite everything, he misses Quill – he almost looks forwards to it.

Kraglin waits for him on Bridge. Perched on his seat, with long legs slung over one armrest. The skinny git. He scrambles up when Yondu approaches, dodging the cuff.

“Out my chair.”

“Yessir. Uh. You see Taserface?”

“Yeah.”

Kraglin bobbles like one of Yondu’s dashboard toys in the throes of a cosmic storm. “Guess it went as well as usual.”

“Guessed right.” Yondu shoos him from the Captain’s plinth, tramping across and settling himself on the fresh-warmed seat. His leathers fold around him like down in a dirty nest. Forcing a smile that’s brighter than he feels, he claps his hands and motions for the holocore to activate. “Calling Mister Collector. Les’ get this shitshow over with.”

***

Mister Collector, it turns out, wants to speak to him in person. And in private. Stupid flouncy Ancients and their stupid flouncy eccentricities…

Yondu mumbles several cruder phrases to this effect as he stomps to his Warbird. Taserface, Half-Nut and Gef, who’ve been dogging his heels the entire journey, don’t halt fast enough. They slam into his back, almost barging him into the repair bay that looms unlit beneath his M-ship’s underbelly. The pipes are shrouded in shadow; they could be mistaken for the ridges on the roof of a giant’s mouth. Yondu almost hurls Half-nut into it as he grabs the scrawny git to steady himself.

“Watch it! Idjit. Coulda killed me.”

“That,” said Taserface through gritted teeth, “is the general idea of a mutiny, yes.”

Yondu chuckles, setting Half-nut to rights. He blows greasy hair out the boy’s sallow face. Half-nut’s nose goes scrunchy at Yondu’s breath, but Ravaging ain’t the cleanest or most hygienic job, and Yondu’s sure he’s smelt worse. Kraglin lurks a few paces behind, a gangly scarecrow half-obscured by the shadow of the suspended ship. He shares his captain’s smirk as he starts punching the codes that’ll have Yondu’s warbird uncoupling from its bay, and his amusement only grows at Yondu’s next words: “Sure, sure. Well, you boys have fun. I got a job t’do.”

“You do realize what this is, right?” As usual, Taserface does the talking. His face, as his name suggests, is a glistening hunk of scar tissue. It bubbles at his lips, creasing his cheeks like a prune. In the hangar bay’s harsh lighting, it’s the same color as one too: deep maroon and glossy-looking, as fascinating as it’s grotesque. Raw cracks appear around his mouth when he speaks, and a blister oozes pus behind one ear.

His cronies, equally ugly in their own unique ways, choose to posture behind him; for all their proclaimed loyalty, they’d rather Taserface be first to intercept the arrow. But Yondu keeps his coat flipped forwards. Depending on the Collector’s demands, executing prime members of his warband might be a poor idea.

“Mutiny, right? Well, honeybunch. I said I’d deal with this when I finished my meet, and my meet ain’t yet finished. Les’ hope it drags on long enough for ya to realize how much of a dumb shit you are an’ come grovellin’ to me for forgiveness.” He finishes with a charming smile and pats Taserface twice on his tender cheek before stalking up the gangway after Krags and slamming the hatch on the lot of ‘em.

Bunch of a-holes. No wonder Quill fucked off. Sharing a crew with idjits like those makes Yondu contemplate early retirement.

…Although the boy ain’t doing much better now, from what Yondu’s gleaned of his precious _Guardians_. (Not that Yondu’s keeping an eye on him, or relentlessly scouring the Xandarian news databases for the latest rumors regarding their occupation and whereabouts. Nope. Not _at all_.) Yondu’d place money on him lasting a year with that gang of misfits before he deserts and splits for the open stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me some comments bruh


	4. Chapter 4

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, he’s _gone?_ ”

“I mean that he is no longer here. Neither is the ship. Or, as far as I can tell, Rocket.”

Gamora stamps her foot. “I do not require your explanations!”

“You asked for them, did you not?”

“It was rhetorical!”

“I am Groot?” _When’s Rocket coming back?_

Jolted from the burgeoning argument, Drax and Gamora survey the empty bay. In that moment, as they stand to either side of a tiny tree who’d just lost his closest friend in the universe, their clashing personalities sync as much as they ever will.

“Soon,” Gamora says. Drax frowns and opens his mouth, undoubtedly to point out the lie – but Gamora bungs the flow of words with an upheld hand. “In fact, we’ll go get him. Quill too.”

“I am Groot!”

“Good. Drax, I need you to hijack a ship.”

Drax’s tattooed forehead creases. “But the corpsman told Rocket stealing is wrong.“

“Rocket, not you.”

“He also said I am not allowed to remove spines.”

“He said no such thing to me. Meaning I can, and will, if you keep dithering.” Gamora’s eyes flicker as bright as her swordblade. The implants under her skin overemphasize her facial structure, highlighting the angular aretes of browbone and cheek. As the third Xandarian sun dips towards the horizon, bathing the shining silver spires in crimson, she takes on the appearance of a blood-stained skull.

She may be Drax’s newforged compatriot. But there’s enough of the Titan’s daughter in her to make him think twice about continuing their argument.

“Very well,” he mutters. “I will find your ship.”

“And I,” says Gamora, flipping out her comm-disk, “will make a call.”

They nod to each other, brusque and eloquent, all need for words exhausted. Then – “I am Groot?”

Oh yes. Their smallest teammate may be below both of their sightlines, but that doesn’t excuse forgetting him. “Go with Drax,” says Gamora, at the exact same time Drax says “Stay here.” There follows thereafter a short but intense frowning match; any passing Xandarians tempted to ask for their saviors’ autographs are dissuaded by the crackling glares.

Drax, arms crossed, speaks first. “I may get into a fight.”

“So might I.”

“During a holocall?”

“You don’t know who I’m contacting.”

“Tell me then.”

“I’d rather not – at least until this is settled.”

They glare a while longer, ignoring Groot’s plaintive tugs on their bootstraps. “If I agree to mind him,” Gamora says eventually, sneering into the Destroyer’s broad features as if they’re something scraped from her boot-heels, “Will you cease this interrogation?”

Drax looks displeased. But he sticks out his hand. “Deal,” he rumbles, and that is that.

***

The Scepter resides in SHIELD’s deepest, darkest bunker, at a facility Tony is prohibited from knowing the location of. That doesn’t stop him digging, of course.

His phone’s been confiscated, as well as his suit-case (a pun that has Bruce groaning whenever Tony makes it, which of course encourages Tony to find space for it in every conversation). But Tony’s nothing if not intuitive. Wherever they are, it’s taken an eight-hour flight to arrive – although SHIELD could have added on an extra few just to confuse him, or to try and make him squirm. There are, after all, some people who _don’t_ relish the thought of being trapped in an airborn tin can with a guy who mops the floor with self-proclaimed deities when he gets mad.

Tony isn’t one of those people.

Bruce is. He spends most of the flight clinging to his armrests, as Tony alternates between nattering at their guards-slash-escorts and boredly poking the Quinjet’s interior.

“I could give you an upgrade, y’know? I’d even knock a couple of billion off the bill. Just for you.”

“Stark,” says Natasha, one of those guards-slash-escorts. “You may customize the Avengers’ personal Quinjet to your little heart’s content. But if I catch you tinkering with SHIELD property…”

She lets the threat hang. _You’re an Avenger too,_ Tony wants to tell her – but that sounds far too much like he’s searching for reassurance, for her to promise that there’s more to their team than a gang of lone vigilantes pulled together by crisis. The Avengers aren’t quite the timebomb they used to be. But as they’re disbanded whenever no threats to global peace are deemed immanent, they’re far from a functioning unit either.

Rather than speaking his mind, Tony places a hand over his chest in mock-hurt. The reactor-core brushes his thumb with its unnatural chill. “Are you saying I have a small heart, Miss Romanov?”

Her snort and eye-roll keep Tony amused until they land.

No sooner have the wheels made touchdown, bouncing Tony and Bruce in their seats while the agents grimly hold to the ceiling straps like commuters surfing the tube, than Natasha’s barking orders into her comm. “Incoming. Inform Fury of our secure arrival. We convene with Hill at agreed rendezvous.”

A muffled crackle of affirmation. Then the plane’s nose dips sharply, as if it’s keeling into the earth – a few of the lesser-experienced agents have to swallow their squeaks. The blacked out windows reveal nothing of the world outside. They could be on Antarctica or the moon. The surroundings, after Bruce and Tony are given the curt order to unplug themselves and make their way out through the gaping hatch, are similarly unforthcoming.

This place is a time capsule. Seriously old-school – but with a futuristic blend, relying on high-tech motion detectors and cameras as well as classic (and, more importantly, unhackable) padlocks. Fury’s expended considerable effort in keeping the scepter secure and secret. The few agents Tony sees are all formed into strict rankings, and the military air is far more overt than it ever was on the helicarrier.

Despite the artificial crispness of the air there remains a distinct sense of the subterranean. The antique bulbs overhead look like something patched together by Tesla or Edison, but there’s massive Starktech holoprojecters filling the far-off portion of the Hangar with three-dimensional photonic layouts: command boards, security controls, access port surveillance. Tony’s more than a little smug to see them there – but when he turns to nudge Natasha, he finds that she’s watching him with narrow eyes. She wears that unsettling expression Tony remembers from when he first met her, as if she’s documenting every one of his thought processes into a mental file. Or – more likely in Tony’s case – an entire filing cabinet.

“What?” he asks, striving to appear unaffected. “I got something on my face?” She doesn’t crack a smile, and Tony’s own begins to waver. “Seriously, Nat. You’re spooking me.”

“I’m a spook. It’s what we do.” But beneath the snappy reply, there’s genuine concern. Or at least, Tony thinks it’s genuine. If not, it’s a simulacra so convincing it might as well be the real article – and he’s only going to wind his brain in a knot if he keeps contemplating this. He decides to accept it for the emotion he can detect, and move on.

“Is there something about the Scepter I should know?” Nervous now, thinking of Clint and blue eyes and being tossed out of fiftieth-story windows, Tony waggles his fingers in front of her nose. “Any more whacky voodoo-juice left in that thing?”

Bruce, ambling until that moment peaceably behind them, starts glancing for the nearest exit. “Natasha, I’m not sure this is a good idea…”

“Relax, Bruce. Nothing will happen to you, and you won’t hurt anyone else.” Her expression glaciates like a river frosting over for winter. “I promise.” And if that doesn’t entirely calm Bruce’s nerves (or sate Tony’s curiosity) this is Natasha they’re speaking with. They won’t get more out of her than she’s willing to tell. “Behave,” is the last thing she says to Tony, before passing them over to Maria’s tender care. Tony nods, planning to do anything but.

Hill – Fury wouldn’t trust the care of his least favorite hero to anyone else but her and Coulson, and the latter’s off doing Unspeakable Things with his new pet team – turns her back to discreetly hide the code she punches in to the doorlock. This in turn has the panel folding away to reveal a palmprint and eyeball reader: triple-security, and no doubt there are several more layers still awaiting them. Tony takes the opportunity to sidle to one of the many pipes lining the walls and press a transparent, wire-stuffed patch to its side. When he catches Bruce watching, he shoots him a wink.

The adhesive gums it flat. Then the surface of the patch flares shockingly white, gold, and green in rapid succession, before finally smoothing to a sleek matt orange that corresponds to the copper of the pipe behind. Perfect. “Little trick inspired by the helicarrier,” he whispers to Bruce, as Maria ushers them through. “Still ironing out the color-flux before the camouflage activates.”

Bruce’s reply is a taciturn frown. “Now is not the time for showing off.”

“ _Every_ time is time for showing off.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you love me for it.” That’s the second time someone’s rolled his eyes at him in as many minutes. Tony would be more impressed if his personal record wasn’t much higher. Hill cuts through their bickering with a practiced cough.

“A- _hem_. You will have supervised access to the staff for the next five hours.”

Tony’s disappointment is palpable. “Five hours? That’s barely time for preliminary tests!”

“Well, prolonged exposure has been deemed… _dangerous_. As we have yet to administer any methods for counteracting the effects bar complete isolation for a week or serious head-trauma, limiting your time with it is the safest option.”

Tony makes to sputter another protest, concerned only with the disruption of his working methods. Bruce lays a hand on his arm. “Dangerous?” he asks. “What do you mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Commentz plz**


	5. Chapter 5

Yondu was expecting the Collector. He was expecting dusty, smeared-glass and stilted conversation; possibly an offer of some snot-tasting delicacy or another that he’d be diplomatically bound to sample. So when he pokes the incoming call icon and comes face to face not with droopy eyes and a sagging silver hairdo, but Quill’s pert and pretty green lass, his delight can be forgiven. She’s not what catches his eye though. Yondu goggles at the tiny critter perched on her shoulder, clinging to her waves of sleek maroon hair. He fights the urge to squeeze his grizzled old cheeks and coo.

“What the flark is _that?_ ” Gamora covers the sapling’s ears – if saplings even _have_ ears. She shoots him a self-righteous scowl. Yondu rolls his eyes. “Awright, awright. Ya got me. No more cussin’ – fuck knows why; kid’ll learn soon enough regardless…”

Gamora scoffs, finger inching towards the end-call button. Well, more fool her if she’s harboring regret. She’s the one who rang him; now she’s gotta live with the consequences. Anyway, news from her equates news regarding Quill – and while Yondu refuses to acknowledge the niggling fear that she’s calling him because something awful’s happened, because Quill’s coma-bound or worse, his curiosity is still more than piqued.

“C’mon, girlie,” he drawls, leaning back in the Warbird’s pilot seat. The big ship seems kinda empty without Quill to squabble with over nav-routes and job specs: Kraglin’s presence is comfortable in its own way, but it ain’t the same. “This ain’t no booty-call.” Her laugh is, quite frankly, offensive. Yondu doesn’t call her out on it. He’s the forgiving type. “What’chu got for me? Because I gotta rendezvous to make, an’ I ain’t gonna sit round burnin’ engine fuel so y’all can make smalltalk.”

“You’re in zero gravity,” says Gamora. Her glare is as wry as Yondu remembers, from their brief clash after he pulled her and Quill into his airlock (saving the brat again, but did he get any thanks for it?) And, of course, when a certain passing comment about _nookie-nookie_ had earned him an unamused scowl. “If you’re burning that much fuel, you’re doing something wrong.”

“You callin’ me a bad pilot? Careful what you say, darlin’.”

Her lips curl, and not in the positive direction. “Don’t call me 'darling'.”

“Don’t keep on ditherin’. Tell me what’chu want and why ya called – not that I ain’t flattered you’d give me a buzz, but there’s gotta be a reason, an’ I’m guessin’ it’s a big dumb Terran-shaped one. So spit.” A pause. “And tell me where I can buy one of dem lil’ tree thingies. Want one for my dashboard.”

The crash on Xandar obliterated most of his collection. The survivors – his blue widget, some sorta red bobble-headed figurine and a pair of fluffy dice – sit in pride of place along his console. He strokes them now, blunt chipped blue nails scratching glass, plastic, synthetic fuzz. Yeah, he reckons Gamora’s bonsai-pet would fit right in.

Gamora, by her look of horror, disagrees. “Groot isn’t for sale!”

“I am Groot!” comes Groot’s own earnest denial.

Yondu’s a fair shot faster at putting two and two together than he usually pretends to be, and right now, with only Gamora and Kraglin as his witnesses, there’s no point projecting obfuscating stupidity. His eyes pop, and he nearly steers the Warbird into an asteroid. “That’s _Groot_? Mr Three-monosyllables-to-my-name? What in hell – “

“Language!”

“I thought he died!”

Because five Guardians had entered Ronan’s flying fortress, but only four had emerged. Yondu’d seen the scattered debris, the mingling leaf-litter and char and the sniffling rodent amongst them. He’d made the logical assumption.

For some reason, Gamora looks conflicted. “So did we,” she says, chucking the tree – the twiglet – under its rounded chin. “We’re glad to have been wrong.”

Ugh. There she goes again. Waving all that stupid, good-for-nothing sentiment about. Does she have no shame? Yondu regains control of the joystick – much to Kraglin’s relief, who hadn’t become engrossed enough in the conversation to forget the considerable hazards of manual asteroid-field navigation. Yondu ignores the sounds of hyperventilation from the co-pilot’s chair. “Thas’ cute an’ all. But ya still ain’t cut to the chase – an’ while I might act like a saint, I sure don’t got the patience of one.”

“Okay,” says Gamora. She stands up straight, like she’s fortifying herself. A peaceful Xandarian skyscape cleaves across the projection behind her, filling half of Yondu’s windscreen – he pretends not to hear Kraglin’s pleas for him to _minimize the damn thing, boss, an’ watch where yer flyin’_.

She tells him.

Yondu swears. Yondu swears a lot.

Gamora tells him off, so Yondu swears some more, and Gamora flicks the comm to blank before Groot’s impressionable young ears can soak up anything too crude. “We’ll be leaving for the wormhole at sundown,” she tells him in those final moments before the pixels flicker back to clear glass. “Meet us en route – or don’t. We’re going with or without you.”

And then she’s gone.

“Well,” says Kraglin, with endearing hope. “Now thas’ out the way, les’ geddon with the job. We gotta floor it, if we want to reach the Collector on time – for an immortal, that guy’s sure prickly about punctuality…” He trails off, recognizing the expression on Yondu’s reflection in the viewscreen. “Aw shit. For fuck's sake, boss. He’s just one Terran...”

There’s no chance he can reach Xandar in time to halt their take-off and wring more answers out of Gamora by force – such as why Peter’s scarpering now, and what his precious Guardians did to him to warrant it. Yondu’ll have to make do with her suggestion, and intercept them partway.

“I’m turning this ship around,” he tells Kraglin. Kraglin’s face, gawky at the best of times, is downright comic when it scrunches in horror.

“You’re turnin’ this ship around! Don’t turn this ship around! We got a meet – a big meet, remember? The Collector? Stable money? Money like that you _lost us_ with that damn orb –“

Kraglin’s costing him concentration. Does he _wanna_ be smushed by an asteroid? Yondu whistles a jaunty tune to shut him up. He only realizes belatedly, as Kraglin stretches the chair straps in his effort to crane away from the arrow twirling against his Ravager patch, that it’s the refrain from _Cherry Bomb_. But by then it’s stuck in his head, and he couldn’t switch to anything else if he wanted to.

***

Peter should’ve known better than to think he’d _get away with it._

Rocket, skulking by the entrance hatch to the engines, covers his snout to hide the snicker. This close to the Milano’s core, the walls thrum with power and the floor vibrates beneath his feet, a grind so deep it’s felt rather than heard.

The bachelor-pad vibes that saturate the rest of the ship – sloped bare walls covered in posters of busty women that reappear as fast as Gamora can bin them, unwashed cutlery left to fester on every horizontal surface – gives way to something more hyperreal and solid here. In Rocket’s eyes, the personalization of a ship only obscures its true nature. You can make a home inside a machine, but you can never extract the machine from it. The annexed vestibules surrounding the central engine room all bear the same domestic taint. Gamora’s hairbrush rests by her cot, and her sword polishing kit dangles in the wardrobe. Drax’s knives are scattered from room to room, along with depleted plasma clips and spilled residue from where Quill’s been teaching him how to use a pistol.

And there’s Groot’s plant pot, of course. That sits by Rocket’s own claimed bed, and is kept packed with moist soil so the Guardians’ youngest member can crawl back into it to sleep.

But while the crew are happy to leave their mark elsewhere, they haven’t intruded into this space more than is mandated by the _Milano_ ’s seldom-adhered to repair schedule. The access room is free from all clutter, including the piles of screws, wiring, and dissected batteries that accumulate wherever Rocket stays for too long.

Everything reeks of combustion and fusion. It’s an ionized tang on the air, as if lightning has struck just seconds before. To the others, it probably feels stark, alien, mechanical. But to Rocket, it might as well be a meditation garden. When he’s gnawed on by the possibility that he’s more machine than animal, he comes here to remind himself that he’s not alone.

Which doesn’t excuse his sudden trepidation over the next phase of his plan. But perhaps it explains it, just a little.

Gamora, Drax and Groot will follow Quill. He’s sure of it. All Rocket has to do is scupper the _Milano_ before they reach the nearest wormhole. But, as his claws hover above the entry panel to the engine core, he hesitates. Quill’s already lost this ship once. He hadn’t complained about ramming it through the side of Ronan’s flying fortress, although he must’ve known it wouldn’t survive the journey. But Rocket’d seen the way his face lit up when Dey revealed it: rebuilt and shiny and fresh-waxed, cleaner than it’d ever been.

To bring the _Milano_ to a dead-halt, and in such a way that Quill’s mediocre engineering skills wouldn’t get it moving again? Rocket would have to do something drastic. And this time, there’d be no Nova Prime to bail them out.

Rocket’s paws knot into tight little fists. He rests his furry forehead on the _Milano_ ’s humming flank, and wasted a valuable minute cursing sentiment. Then he rights himself. Shakes away the scowl. Stalks back the way he’d come, letting the heavy hatch door clunk shut behind him. “Alright then,” he says gruffly, as he aims for the cockpit where an oblivious Terran hums _Come and Get Your Love_. “Let’s do this the hard way.”

***

“What did she mean, _dangerous?_ ” Bruce lingers by the door, torn between staring wistfully at the locking mechanism and keeping his eyes on the scepter as if he expects it to sprout fangs and lunge for his throat. Maria’s sealed them in with their subject. To exit, they have to hammer on a mic button and – oddly – say a specific set of words. Tony can’t imagine how “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” is in any way a good security key – or why SHIELD needs one for this room, as there’s cameras trained on them from every direction. But he figures that pointing this out wouldn’t be in his best interests. Despite myriad claims to the contrary, Tony’s not actually as immature as he pretends; he knows that actions have consequences, and that antagonizing Maria will only get him torn away from his intriguing new toy before he’s given it the thorough analysis it deserves.

His palms hover above the staff. It’s glowing like a bug-zapper, an acrid blue that hurts Tony’s eyes. Bruce, if the way he’s side-eyeing him is any indication, is just _waiting_ for Tony to fall victim to the hypnosis and go full loco.

Unable to resist, Tony counts to three under his breath and spins on him with a loud “Boo!”

…So perhaps he is just as immature as he pretends. Potentially suicidal as well. Bruce’s eyes flare green – then he catches a hold of himself and collapses back against the door, one hand flat to his chest. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Tony chuckles. “Aw. You should’ve seen your face.”

“Not funny, Tony!” But he doesn’t march over to sputter in Tony’s face about the dangers of releasing the Other Guy in a confined area. He stays right where he is – pressed tight to the doorframe, as if hoping he’ll faze through like a ghost. Tony snorts.

“Alright then, I guess you can consult from over there. What do you think’s causing this lumen output? And how should we measure it?”

“I – well, recalling our research from the, uh, Portal Incident –“ If he sees Tony shudder, he doesn’t comment. “A Geiger counter should be our first bet. There’s a fair chance we shouldn’t be in the same room as it, not without a protective lead casing…” He trails off. Coughs. Starts again, the blue light glossing his face in an eerie pall and illuminating the bead of sweat that trickles towards his collar. “I’m just saying that perhaps we should inspect the affected agents Hill mentioned before going ahead with this. Y’know – the ones who took a week to recover…”

“Dammit Bruce, I’m a physicist, not a doctor.”

“Hilarious. But you really ought to know better than to just dive into dangerous matters like these without knowing the risk. Actuarial assessment is an important part of the job, and while I admire your intelligence, I will admit that your gung-ho attitude makes collaboration with you a terrifying prospect at the best of times…”

Tony, rubbing his hands, steps up to the plinth. And before Bruce can stop him, strokes the scepter blade-to-end, as if he’s soothing the fur on the back of a spooked cat.

Bruce drops his head into his hands. “Oh shit.”

Tony examines his fingers, brushing the roof of his tongue over his mouth and sucking on his tingling lips. “Like licking a battery. Now, what was that about a gung-ho attitude?”

Bruce is the approximate color of semolina. “I think,” he says faintly, “I’m going to regret suggesting this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More unedited twaddle where nothing really happens. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it! Do drop me a review; nothing makes my day more.**
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> **As I've mentioned before, this'll be the last chapter until I finish a couple of my other WIPs. Because I need to work on my ability to stick to fics and see them through to completion... I'm such a doof aaah**
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> ****


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which we grind a little closer to a cohesive plot**

Natasha takes first dibs on chewing Tony out, once their five hours are up and Tony and Bruce have emerged from the cell no closer to fathoming the Scepter’s secrets than they were when they entered. Well. Technically, she’s second. But Bruce’s mild-mannered temperament makes his scolding more humorous than effective. Tony’s still snickering when Nat pushes him against the wall, and her pistol against his head.

“What’s your name?”

Tony glances along the barrel. His gaze treks up the sleek curve of a black-clad arm, across two equally sleek and equally black-clad breasts, and onto Natasha’s face. Her eyes are cold and professional. But the gun tics when he swallows, and there’s sweat beading inside her collar. Whatever she thinks happened in that room, it’s spooked her.

For once, he doesn’t piss around. Much. “My name’s Tony Stark. Father Howard, mom Maria. I’m an Avenger, code-name Iron Man. When I stripped back in college, my stage-name was Candy. Is that enough for you?”

Natasha’s lips don’t twitch. She releases him, but not before digging precise, strong little fingers into the pressure point on his wrist until his hand flops boneless and Tony bows in pain.

“Ow! Owowow! Candy’s above your paygrade nowadays! Hey Bruce, you wanna act the bouncer and tell our superspy friend that if I dislike being handed things, I like being _manhandled_ even less?”

“Fool,” mutters Natasha. It’s followed by something harsh and guttural and Russian-sounding that makes Maria crack a grin. But it’s undeniably relieved, maybe even a little fond. Tony, cradling his sore wrist and flexing his fingers as sensation returns in a rush of pins and needles, pouts.

“They’re ganging up on me, Bruce.”

“Like you don’t deserve it!” If Natasha’s sweaty, Bruce is agush. Despite the temperate climate of the base – no doubt centrally controlled, like the light, air circulation, and oxygen content – his face is slick and oily as a salmon’s. He takes off his glasses, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Dammit, Tony. You scared us all. Why would you – why would you even _do_ that? That’s not how we get results. We’re _scientists_. There are methods, there are checks and measures –“

Tony honed his ability to tune out boring shit once Fury started debriefing him on a semi-regular basis. He strides along the corridor, past the little camouflaged patch he attached to the pipe – which by now will have sent a small charge surging through the metal – while Bruce blathers away behind.

That same pipe swoops overhead: an uninterrupted copper line that feeds directly to the computers whirring at the far corner of the main auditorium. Coolant carrier of some sort. But so long as it’s conductive, it’ll work. Tony’s not stealing SHIELD secrets or anything suicidal like that – or at least, not for monetary gain. But there’s no way Maria or Nat will tell him everything if he just _asks._ It’s best that he do his own research, for this project and his own peace of mind. “So, you got some beds set up for us in this hole? I’ll have you know that I’m accustomed to five star accommodation. Plus three Michelin stars for every meal, but that goes without saying...”

Natasha falls into step besides him, seemingly without having made any effort to catch up. She lopes silent and fluid as a panther. “You’ll get a single-sized cot and basic mess rations like the rest of us. _After_ you’ve visited medical. We need to give you a more thorough check-up – who knows how contact with the scepter might’ve messed you up inside?”

Tony winks at her. “It’s a good thing I can’t get any more 'messed up' then, huh?”

“Why?” asks Bruce, bypassing Tony. He finishes polishing his glasses, breaking into a half-jog to join them before they exit the dingy subsidiary tunnel to the harsh white lights of the bunker. “What sort of thing will the medics be looking for, exactly?”

Natasha eyes him sidelong. “Classified. For now.”

“But it could be useful to our research –“

“Research you will be undertaking while in close proximity with the Scepter. Excuse us if we want to keep confirmed victims isolated from potential ones. That’s a surefire route to an uprising.”

Tony rankles at the mere _suggestion_ that he’s suspected of being compromised. He’s in charge of his own damn mind (when he’s sober), and right now the only thing occupying it is the thought that he hasn’t imbibed since they set off from NY. No evil reindeer-antlered demigods cluttering the corners. No threats to his life or offers of drinks. And – he checks himself in the reflective back of a display-board – no blue eyes. Tony understands why SHIELD are isolating any who’ve fallen under the staff’s sway, but if they’re even dealing with the same kind of mind-whammying that Loki’d tried to pull over him… Well, who knows? Maybe Tony’ll be immune to this too.

At the end of the day, it matters little whether Natasha tells him what’s going on. Tony’ll retrieve the patch tomorrow. Then he’ll know everything he needs to.

***

“That’s no ship,” is the first thing Gamora says. She waits for “That’s no moon; that’s a space station!” Then shakes her head, frowning. Peter’s gone. There’ll be no inane Terran-references until he returns. They’d better fetch their errant teammate soon, before she starts filling the silence verbally rather than in the privacy of her mind.

Drax squints at the craft he has acquired. ‘Craft’ is generous. It’s an aging relic of a bygone age, from before the colonial era and the mass immigration flux that expanded the Xandarian empire halfway around the outer quadrant while the Skrulls and Krees bickered over petty territories near the Galactic Core. Of course, the Kree had turned around and started slicing beef with the Xandarians instead, and then there’d been _another_ war, and more refugees, and an Infinity Stone and a power-hungry zealot determined to put it to use and a mad Titan watching from his faraway throne with a glint in his eye that indicated _everything was going according to plan…_

But those are bigger fish than Gamora has room in her skillet to fly. Not that Drax would understand the metaphor.

“I do not see any problem with it,” he says, while Groot waves from his perch on Gamora's hand as if they weren’t all together not five minutes before. “The owner sold it to me for reduced price – a mere one thousand of Quill’s units! And the bargain, he claimed, was because we saved his family when Xandar fell. I assumed it was a good deal. After all, it is solid. It is flight-worthy.” He knocks on the nosecone to demonstrate. There’s a _clang_ as an answering piece drops off the ship’s backside.

Swords do not fix every situation. But Gamora’s tempted to draw hers and hunt down that swindling ship dealer nevertheless. No respect for heroes in these parts, other than the gushy and superficial admiration of the crowds.

“But is it _space-worthy?_ ” she asks. “Drax, we have to cross galaxies in this.”

There’s a pause while Drax digests her critique. Rather than blustering on in the adamant certainty that he’s correct (like some of her other teammates, who shall remain nameless) he nods. “You may have a point.”

“I _know_ I have a point. If Rocket were here, then maybe. But…” But Rocket’s gone too. Gamora’s fist bunches – the one that isn’t holding Groot. He’d played her. Normally she would concede the point as fair game. However, there is nothing _fair_ about using their shared past torments for leverage.

Gamora’s cybernetics were implanted on a crude stone slab with cyclopean pillars towering on all sides. Unbeknownst to her at the time, this slab doubled as an alter; on it each of her preceding siblings had been sacrificed to Lady Thanatos, when they slipped in their training, failed a mission, or (most grievous of all) misspoke to their father. The monolith perched on a dull and desolate asteroid amid a sea of dull and desolate asteroids, past the furthest reaches of Knowhere’s neon lights.

Rocket, in contrast, had writhed on an alcohol-swabbed table under the glaring lights of a Halfworld lab.

Gamora had been given her sword pommel to bite down on and told to stay still, if she wanted to be a good daughter.

Rocket had been tethered and muzzled, unable to fight if he wanted too.

Even now, Gamora struggles with the question of which she would have preferred, given the choice. To be forced to become a monster? Or conditioned to desire it?

But this isn’t about competition. It’s about the fact that Rocket exploited the darkest parts of their past so he could... What, exactly? Go gallivanting on a cross-galactic jaunt with Quill? Gamora’s not standing for it. She wants the both of them back where they belong. With her. With their team. And she knows from the uncharacteristically severe looks on Drax and Groot’s faces that they agree.

“C’mon,” she says softly, laying a slim green hand atop the broad grey one. “Let’s go find someone who’s actually grateful for us saving their butts. They might be willing to get this bird shipshape.”

***

“They’re late,” says Yondu.

That’s not a good sign. What’s _less_ of a good sign is that he’s drumming his fingers on his control console, an inch from firing a volley that will give away their position to every piece of Nova monitoring equipment that clutters this backwater galaxy, all primed and ready to call down the garrison at a moment’s notice. And with their luck, the frutarking Asguardians too.

Because there’s rumors. There’s always rumors, but these have the unmistakable tang of truth to them. Rumors about a banished prince who had returned to his people and an insane one who hadn’t. Rumors about horses with eight legs (not unknown in the galactic scheme of things; more interesting is the rumor of the circumstances surrounding this horse’s birth). And, most disturbingly of all, rumors of a Watchman whose eyes can pierce anything except the all-consuming event horizon of a black hole.

Kraglin doesn’t want to find out if radioactive arrows and Aesir armor mix. He opts for a subject change.

“Uh, boss? How’d you do this the first time? Fly by the Nova stockades and all?”

They’re first through the portal. But that was the easy bit. It required only a bribe, some hand-shaking, and a flash of Yondu’s chipped teeth – then a flash of his weapon, when his prior offers were poorly received. The difficult part is activating lightspeed drives when the slightest flare of Andromedarian technology will set alarms blaring in every Nova HQ from here to Betelgeuse.

Currently the pair of them sit in a depowered M-ship. Energy radiates steadily into the void while they figure out their next move. Heat entropy is the last thing they have to worry about; without the ship’s engines rumbling over, they’ll reach absolute zero if they don’t break their aimless float in a week, but so long as they kick the thrusters on in the next couple of hours, the _Warbird_ should stay habitable.

Not that that’s any consolation when you’re from a rainforest planet. But despite his shivers, Yondu’s smiling.

It’s an expression he usually wears while drunk. Kraglin discreetly checks the cockpit for empty bottles. He finds plenty – but most he recognizes, having popped them in celebration or commiseration after jobs well-done or bust. There’s a few gaps in his memory – he doesn’t recall sharing swigs from that bulbous bottle in the corner, the shoddily-stoppered one which refracts the cabin lights into watery blues. But judging by the potency of the stench when Yondu pulls out the cork with his teeth and offers it over, that’s probably for the best.

Kraglin shakes his head. “I’d, uh, rather stay sober if there’s gonna be shootin’, captain.”

“Suit yerself. Wuss.” Yondu treats himself to a luxurious draft. Wipes the dribble from his stubble, pushes the bung back into place, and props it between his legs for later. “Need to wet my gills before I go tellin’ tales this long – y’know Xandarian scratches my throat.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Kraglin deadpans – which earns him a jagged-nailed blue middle finger, stuck upright and jammed in his face. “So go on. What did ya do? Weren’t no emergency calls for Nova operatives to convene on your point, so ya must’ve been subtle-like.”

Or he’d used bribes, or he’d slept with someone. Neither of which Kraglin would put past Yondu – but he hopes there’s another way through the maze of Nova stations, pitfalls, and traps that lay ahead. Their accounts have been on the scanty side of flush since Quill’s orb-snatching gig (another reason why, in Kraglin’s opinion, this whole rescue mission is ludicrous). There’s little extra padding left to flaunt at corrupt officials when they need to operate on the sly. And while Kraglin ain’t above fucking the odd Nova operative for insider details, he doubts the pair of them (plus Guardians, should they ever show) will be able to sneak past the accumulated might of a Nova taskforce on their prowess alone.

Yondu’s eyebrows have crooked to an incline that precludes a smirk. “Yer thinkin’ too much,” he drawls. Leaning back on his chair, he nods to the glittering alien suns that dapple their cockpit read-out. “Ain’t that hard. What do these sensors pick up on?”

Kraglin squints, suspecting a trick question. “Andromedian tech,” he says. Yondu nods along.

“Right. So what’ll get through?”

“Silver Spiral tech.” Kraglin gasps. “Do you have Terran gear on this Warbird? That stuff’s so outdated it makes frutarkin' Asgardian marriage rituals look modern. Issit gonna blow up? Shit, I can’t believe I let ya talk me into this…”

“Oh, I didn’t give you no choice,” says Yondu breezily. And then, before Kraglin can start flapping his arms and squawking about how _it’s precisely this attitude that gets Yondu mutinied on three times a month:_ “And no. Ain’t no Terran tech here. Beside some crud I nabbed while I was pickin’ up Pete...”

“Sight-seeing, ya mean.”

“Hey, I had to do recon!”

“Visit the local trinket market.”

Yondu crosses his arms. “They call ‘em _malls_.”

And dammit, Kraglin’s not gonna get anything out of him if this turns into a full-fledged argument. Taking a cleansing breath, he forfeits his aggravation in favor of kneading tension from his temples. “Ya still ain’t told me how you flew through.”

“Thas’ cause I didn’t.” Yondu waits for Kraglin to turn to him before he elaborates. “Fly, that is. I _drifted_.”

Suddenly, the lack of engine thrust makes a lot more sense. But Kraglin’s frown still drags his mouth chinwards. “We’re thirty fuckin’ parsecs from Quill’s backwater system, sir. We can’t drift the whole way – we’d be long dead before we came within a lightyear.”

“And so,” says Yondu, nodding to the overhead streak of a Nova cruiser, to whom the lightless Ravager craft will register as one of a million in the miscellany of asteroids and washed out comets that clutter the galaxy’s cold dark edge. “We hitch a ride. Without the Guardians, if they don’t show their sorry asses up in T-minus-five. I’m losin’ patience, and who knows what dumb flark Quill’ll have landed himself in by now?”

***

Some very dumb flark indeed, is the answer to that.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Peter hisses. Rocket, who’s sauntered into the cockpit like it’s his damn name on the _Milano’s_  papers (admittedly, the actual name on those papers is _Yondu Udonta,_ because that blue a-hole had told a twelve-year-old Quill that he’d be flying in formation until he was forty after a particularly heinous stunt, and apparently he’d meant it) plops his furry ass onto a cockpit seat that’s been lowered to accommodate it. He yawns, showing off sharp yellow canines.

“Could ask ya the same thing, Quill. Thought you said you’d wait for Gamora to finish her job?”

Peter flaps exasperated hands at him. Then remembers that he’s supposed to be holding his joystick. “And I _didn’t,_ because I _care_ about Gamora and I don’t want to put her in danger!”

“Well.” Rocket lounges. This is hard to do when you top a foot at a generous estimate, and your spine is held artificially straight by staples grafted to the bone. Rocket manages in spite of his limitations, draping himself across the seat like a dropped mink stole. “Lucky for you, I ain’t no pretty green lady. An’ I figured that if ya were gonna go make a fool outta yourself, I might as well come watch.”

There’s a bulge on Peter’s forehead. It might be a vein, but equally it could be a piece of brain that’s squeezed through the fused skullbones by pressure of sheer frustration. For a moment, he looks ready to wrench the entire ship to one side, into the path of the nearest comet. Rocket wouldn’t be surprised. This whole misadventure has proven that Terrans are far from the most emotionally stable.

But then Peter breathes out. He shuts his eyes. Opens them again, when a proximity warning plips with increased urgency. They’re traversing the fields around the Smuggler’s Hole, the only portal owned by private contractors rather than Empires, and for every second that Peter’s concentration is distracted from the deadly hail of irradiated rock outside, the chances of them meeting an untimely and agonizing death double. But despite this, Peter maintains his zen.

“I care about you too, Rocket,” he says. “You’re my friend. Just as much as Gamora.” Then, when Rocket’s carefree sprawl turns to awkward fidgets – “And while I’m fucking _furious_ that you followed me when I told you not to, I can’t say I’m disappointed. If you’re here, you might as well help. Any idea how we get past the Nova stockade?”

Rocket boggles. “You mean to tell me you got this far, but you don’t got no _plan?”_

Peter’s shrug almost disguises his smile. “Hey, I like to play things by ear. If my twelve-percent got Xandar saved –“

“You’re never gonna quit lording that over us, are you.”

“-Then my eight-percent will be more than enough to get us to Terra. So. Any ideas, genius?”

“No! Nova scanning tech’s powerful stuff; we could kill everything but our thrust and it’d still pick us up - and we kinda need that to get anywhere. The scanners're hardwired to Andromederian tech, so unless ya got a bootlegged Terran combustible fusion engine stuffed up your…” Rocket trails off.

That’s good. That usually precludes a ‘eureka’. What’s not so good is that Rocket’s wearing the expression he usually gets before he dismantles a vital piece of equipment – like the headlamps, or the artificial gravity generator, or the toilet – so he can build another, bigger bomb.

And he’s staring directly at Peter’s cassette deck.

“Oh no,” Peter says.

“Lemme crack that panel and give me a minute to fiddle…”

“No. Definitely not, nope, nosiree…”

“I could channel all of the ship’s output signatures through that baby.”

“Nuh-uh, not happening, no way…”

“Won’t fool ‘em for long. Any trooper with two braincells’ll want to know why Terrans have suddenly developed faster-than-light travel. But it’ll get us past the bulk of ‘em. Thas all we need; we can outfly the rest.”

“I said no! Rocket, I’m not letting you rip apart my mom’s Walkman! What if something goes wrong? What if you break it?”

“Oh, it’ll break anyway,” says Rocket breezily. “Channelling all that data through a single device? We’re talkin’ system overload. Circuits busted, the lot. It might actually explode.” Peter gapes. While he’s catching flies, Rocket barges on: “But I figure, as we’re headin’ to Terra anyway, that ya can just pick up another one. Right?”

How do you explain the concept of sentimental value to someone who doesn’t understand simple maxims like _stealing is wrong_? Peter’s mind fails to grasp words, or supply them to his tongue.

“No,” is all he can manage. Rocket’s claws flex as if they’re already severing the tapedeck’s inner reels, snipping that lifeline that links Peter to his mother like an umbilical cord strung through time and space, life and death. “No, Rocket. There’s gotta be another way.”

“And if there ain’t?”

“Then we don’t rest until we find one!” But the chronometer spins in the corner of Peter’s vision: chunky Xandarian script that only translates to English if he stares at it directly. Now, in his peripherals, it’s a whirling kaleidoscope of squiggles. The anniversary of mom’s death closes with each passing hour. They’re running out of time.

Astral dates are one Strange Alien Thing atop a pile of Strange Alien Things. Peter swears that the summit of this pile recedes away from him Sisyphus-style; for every item he crosses off and claims to understand, another dozen emerge that are equally confusing, if not more so. It’s as if the universe delights in reminding him of his status. Puny, feeble little Terran: one of the softest and squishiest species around.

…Although Peter’s not just Terran. Funny how that keeps slipping his mind.

But anyway. Back to Peter’s pile. Astral dates in particular, Peter doesn’t try to contemplate. That would risk acknowledging that time is reducible and anthropocentric – _alien_ -centric, Peter should say. Just a mode by which change can be measured. If Peter accepted that, he would have to also accept the insignificant nature of everything else, Terra included.

However, their most recent salvage haul – from a ship the Nova Corps had flagged up for straying into unlawful territory, but which had been floating ghostly, bereft of its crew when the Guardians arrived – turned up an object that forced Peter to reconsider his ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy regarding time. As for the missing men, he didn’t spare them much thought. Anything could’ve happened. One jackass could’ve been infected by cannibalistic spores and devoured the rest. They could’ve been overcome by paranoid hallucinations from flying too close to a quasar and jumped out the airlocks. Or captured by renegade Kree, or hijacked by Ravagers and filleted for the stewpot. The choices were as variable as the galaxy broad.

But the strange dial-less contraption he discovered, whirring behind a grill in the cockpit? Why had they even kept it? To them it was just a curio – a piece of number-counting tat hacked off the side of a satellite as they flew through the Silver Spiral Forbidden Zone. Whatever the reason, Peter’s glad it didn’t go straight in the trash. Or in Rocket’s spare parts drawer. Rocket usually gets first dibs on any mechanical loot, but Peter’d snatched this one before he had the chance.

He doesn’t know what about it had caught his eye. Maybe it was its shape, or general shininess. Maybe it was the engraving on its side, reading _STARK INDUSTRIES_ in block-printed English.

Now as those numbers click to ‘07/12/2014’, Peter unhooks it from its wiry nest. He tosses it one-handed, while the other winds their craft in a deft tango around pellets of super-cooled rock. His forehead has acquired a premature groove.

Give Rocket this, and he loses track of variation between Terran timezones and the rest of civilized space. He won’t be able to tell how close they are to mom’s death date. Not until he punctures Earth’s atmosphere, at which point Rocket can hack whatever communications network the humans are using nowadays.

But keep it, and he forfeits his music.

That’s an easy choice. Peter holds out the clock. “Try this instead,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I thought this fic was waaaay worse than it was - but then reread it and discovered it's actually 'okay' rather than 'abysmal'? So it's staying up, and here's another chapter for you. I promise the plot will get going once Peter actually reaches earth. Goddamit brain; why do you always string stories out so much?**
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> **Anyway. I hope you enjoy this! Comments are always appreciated, and I'm sorry it's been so long.**
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> ****


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter flies, Yondu chases, and Tony is afraid**

The clock explodes. It is, as Rocket promised, spectacular. But Rocket is a hard rodent to please.

“Would’ve looked way cooler if you’d let me strap bang-putty to it,” he grumbles. Bang-putty – another of Rocket’s inventions that would be banned galaxy-wide if it’d only been invented by someone whose species wasn’t listed as an animal, and who boasted an Interstellar Chemist’s Degree – is drab grey and feels like wet sand. When you compress it into a tight wad and give it five very deliberate pokes (with a pencil, if you have fingers larger than Rocket’s) it becomes a lot more interesting.

Peter shakes his head. “I love you, buddy, but sometimes I swear you’re _trying_ to blow up my ship.”

Rocket sniggers, scratching his fuzzy little chin. “Maybe I should, if that’d make ya let me give it an overhaul. There’s so much I could do with this baby…”

“None of which you _will_ do without my express permission,” Peter reminds him for the umpteenth time. “Which I do not give. So keep those hands to yourself, pal.”

Popping a mock salute, Rocket leers at him and hops off his chair. “Right. Well, won’t be long before we puncture Earth’s atmosphere. I’ll see if I can jig any more life outta this –“ He waggles the busted clock case, the _S, T_ and _A_ charred but legible, while the _R_ and _K_ lay  scattered among the shrapnel that’d peppered the cockpit interior when the watch first popped. “Buy us some more time, before the Nova peg what we’re up to. Call me when we get there.” And with that, he jumps through the trapdoor hatch and vanishes into the gloom of the _Milano’s_ underdecks.

Which leaves Peter alone. Sat beneath the spooling lights of the hyperdrive, which smear across his vision like paint splats spread with a butter-knife. Contemplating how far he’s come, how far he still has to go, and whether he’ll be the only one keeping vigil by mom’s grave.

He has three days, the current one included. Three sets of twenty-four hours, in which to journey from the Galaxy’s core to its boondocks, land, hide his ship so as not to terrify the natives _(the_ _other Terrans,_ his mind unhelpfully supplies) and earn some sort of currency so he can buy mom flowers rather than snatching them from the buckets outside of the town florists. If the town florist is even there anymore.

Things will have changed. It’s been years since he left. His mom’s dead, but so is his granddad – unless Terrans have unearthed an Infinity Stone and conquered the conundrum of mortality. His friends will have grown up and moved on. They’ll have left his small, dusty southern town. Married. Had children. Gotten jobs… Little Peter Quill, the boy who vanished, will be nothing more than a fleeting memory: a horror story told to keep kids in bed past curfew. _Don’t run away in the night, or you’ll be stolen like Meredith’s boy. They never found him, did they? Not even a body. I suppose we’re lucky poor Merry died beforehand – the only thing worse than losing a parent is losing a child._

Yondu claims Peter doesn't care about his 'fool Terra,' or words to that effect. He also calls him soft – a rare subject on which Gamora, Rocket, and Drax might agree (although they substitute ‘soft-hearted’ for ‘soft in the head’). But just because he’s been outvoted doesn’t mean Peter’s wrong. So long as mom’s grave has been erected in the family plot, resting besides grandma in that patch of shade beneath the weeping willow tree at the cemetry edge where Peter had been led every fortnight as a child to pay his respects, he doesn’t care. The town could be a ghost-settlement: all dilapidated, boarded-up houses and nodding oil-donkeys that creak in the wind. Mom’s grave, mom’s music, mom’s memory is all Peter needs to feel like he’s come home.

That’s morbid, perhaps. More morbid is his contemplation of whether there’ll be a smaller marble stone besides hers, one bearing his own name.

“Perter!” hollers Rocket, re-emerging through the hatch with the smoking clock held aloft. “Squeezed more juice outta our engines! We’re incoming!”

Peter wrenches his gaze from mom’s cassette as its reels spin around and around, space-proofed tape winding in on itself like a slim black oroborus. He’s struck by the rapidly approaching swell of a marbled blue-white globe, hanging in the gloom like a Christmas bauble.

Earth. Terra. Home.

Peter wrings the _Milano’s_ plastic control column, ensuring it won’t be jolted out of his grip. He grins at Rocket as their entry makes his old girl’s panels rattle about their casings, fire licking the windows as if they're diving into the sun. He has to shout to be heard over the roar: “You might wanna strap yourself in!”

 

* * *

 

“This’s a dumb idea.”

“Oh, Kraggles. Did I ask for yer opinion?”

“Per’aps if you’d listened when I told ya not to keep the damn Terran brat in the first place, we wouldn’t be _in_ this frutarkin’ situation -”

“Oh?” Yondu sizes up his mate, slouched on the chair besides him. He raises his chin in an effort to make himself taller. Not that he needs it. Yondu’s been perfecting his ability to act like the biggest guy in the room since he first made captain; even on his ass he can command attention. He cranks his posturing up a notch, thinning his eyes at Kraglin and leaning into his personal space, disregarding the levers and switches he's crushing. Suspended in the motley patchwork of wiring over their heads, a warning bell starts to pleep. “You really wanna question my judgment? Now? When there ain’t no other crew around to stop me whistlin’ through yer scrawny throat?”

Kraglin’s eyes bulge. That same throat bobs as if he’s swallowing a pingpong ball. For a moment Yondu thinks he’s spooked him - but then Kraglin comes to an internal conclusion and relaxes, toggling the switches that have the alarms shutting off, and shaking his head at Yondu with an exasperation that could almost be fond. “Crew’s never able to stop ya killing someone if you wanna, boss.”

 _Yeah, but you can. When I’m in a good mood._ Yondu catches himself before he says that out loud. While Kraglin may be his closest compatriot (Peter having swanned off on his Guardians jaunt, Horuz being dead, and Taserface a mutineering swine who deserves to be keel-hauled) there’s the boundaries of professionalism to consider. They’re Ravagers - high ranking ones at that. They can never be something so simple and satisfactory as _friends_ _._ He gives his mental self a thorough shaking and a slap for good measure, for daring to consider putting such sentimental drivel into words.

“C’mon,” he growls instead. He returns his attention to the Novacraft, which is about to make its lightspeed jump. “Cosy up close enough to that baby and we’ll catch the tail-suck of the hyperdrive. Once we’ve got our speed up, we can punch in Earth’s coordinates and hope those faster-than-light ostriches, or whatever they are -”

“Oscillations, sir.”

“- Disguise our Andromeda-galaxy signals. Sound good?”

“No sir.” Kraglin rewraps his fingers around the copilot’s control column, gloves squeaking on the plastic. His grin is tight and fierce, face made blocky by his clenched jaw. “Sounds dumb, like I already told ya. But you’re gonna do what you want like ya always do, and drag me along for the ride. So I might as well pitch in an’ make sure we don’t get catapulted out into Chitauri territory.”

There’s the man Yondu’s promoted. Kraglin might look like a weaselly toothpick, but he pulls through when it counts. Yondu cheerfully pounds him between the shoulderblades, smacking him forwards so his joystick punches his sternum, talking over Kraglin’s pained ‘oof’.

“Good lad! Now les’ go get our Terran!”

“Your Terran,” Kraglin wheezes. But he reaches over Yondu to activate the engines, a single thrust that’ll push them in the direction of the corpsman’s cruiser without alerting too many scanners. Their arms are a crisscrossed trellis, grimy red leather over blue and white skin. “Just y’know. If we get made into dog-chow by Terran barbarians, don’t you come cryin’ to me.”

 

* * *

 

Tony hasn’t had a nightmare about space in a month. Okay, maybe a week. Three days. The difference is, this time when he wakes up from it - a coldness and a blackness so eternal that it infiltrates the walls of his head, emptying him in tandem until he doesn’t know which way is up, down, left, right, home - the nightmare doesn’t end.

“Two ships,” Natasha shouts over the siren blare. “Similar dimensions. One punctured atmosphere right after the other. They were coming down hot in the Atlantic; the first evened out at 1000 feet and set a course for the southern East Coast and the second followed it!”

“What’ve we got then?” Maria stands before the consoles, legs braced wide and hands clasped behind her slender back. Her glare is every bit as stoic as Fury’s; Tony wonders if he’s guiding her through her earpiece, or whether this is all Hill. Probably the latter. “Some sort of alien dogfight? Chitauri?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am.” A novice SHIELD Agent is tracking the visuals, the helicarrier having already dispatched a flotilla of stealth jets to apprehend the newcomers. Doubtlessly, Natasha’s quinjet is due to join them. “These are a completely different style. No integrated biostructure. We’re talking airborn vehicles. Classic UFOs.”

“Well that’s something at least?” Bruce pants. He erupts from his quarters, which are located next to Tony’s and just as sparse (Tony knows; he insisted on comparing so he could bagsy the most comfortable bed). The man’s got one hand clapped across his face, eyes flickering green - but he holds up the other up palm out when the SHIELD agents exchange nervous glances and back away. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Sudden wake-up calls aren’t optimum operation conditions for the Other Guy, but hey. Seeing those Chitauri freaks again would’ve been worse.”

“I don’t know,” muses Natasha, studying the StarkTech display. The two little pods are several miles apart, too far to see one another. But they’ve strung them onto screens side by side, so they can track their progress simultaneously. The numbers flashing at the bottom of the screen, which Tony assumes are ETA, show a respective _3 hours_ and _5._ “I’d rather deal with an enemy we know the weaknesses of. Wouldn’t you, Tony?”

It’s the first time someone’s addressed him since this whole hellish situation rekindled. Tony swallows. The lump in his throat feels swollen as Mount Saint Helen’s before eruption.

“I’m not going through any holes in the sky,” he says, aiming for flippant but barely hitting firm. “Never again.”

“And we wouldn’t ask you to, Tony,” Bruce is quick to reassure. But Tony isn’t looking at him. Tony’s looking at Maria and Natasha, whose sideways glances say everything their words won’t. If the time comes, and if it’s truly necessary, Tony’s sacrifice would be acceptable collateral.

 _They can’t make me,_ Tony tries to tell himself. _They can’t make me do anything I don’t want to._ He breaks the flinty barrage of their gazes, stepping back, one hand on the railing behind him to remind himself it’s still there. It’s reassuringly solid; the icy metal bites his palms. It’s solid because he’s solid. Tony scans the room, hunting out reminders that he’s on earth, in the right dimension, and that the only thing he has to be afraid of is his memory. And these new aliens, of course. Natasha and Hill can't force him to die - but Tony knows that if it came down to it, they wouldn’t have to. Tony’s a hero. Self-sacrifice is in the job description. He’d do it, for all of them - for Pepper, for Bruce, for Happy and Coulson and his cello-playing beau.

That doesn’t mean he’s not terrified.

Tony swallows hard, chest fluttering. The reactor _aches._ “I’ll fetch my suit,” he says.

 

* * *

 

“Why the fuck is he here?” Peter yells. “And why is he following me?” The shouting is directed at his monitor, which depicts the pursuing m-ship as a stylized turd-pile. Its callsign is labelled ‘captain blueberry’. Rocket takes it upon himself to answer, once it becomes apparent that the display plans only on blinking, beeping, and informing them that Yondu's gaining.

“This's about that dumb Infinity Stone! Dammit, Quill. Told ya we shoulda blown up his ship when we had the chance!”

Peter throttles the control column in lieu of a furry throat. “Dude, we’ve _already established_ that you blowing up me and Gamora would have been a terrible idea. We’ve established this several times.”

“You just don’t want me to have fun… Hey.  What’s that?”

Another callsign pops into existence. Then another, then another. They’re on a new frequency, one the _Milano_ doesn’t recognize. Their avatars are patches of vibrating static. Peter looks at Rocket. Rocket looks at Peter. Peter looks at the unfamiliar ships that cluster the edge of the read out, their exothermic signatures revealing them in patches of red light. They ought to be visible to the naked eye. Yet when Peter glances through the cockpit glass, he sees nothing but blue: endless blue, sky and cloud and sea, as far as the horizon curves. Have Terrans developed cloaking technology? There’d been _talk_ about such things before Peter left Earth, but from his hazy recollections, that talk had mostly been relegated to sci-fi shows on TV.

There’s only one irregularity in the endless pastel stretch of sky - an airborn object, its shape impossible to discern from distance. A big bird, perhaps? An albatross? It’s keeping pace with them, whatever it is. And while Peter remembers little of earth, he can’t forget sitting cuddled on grandpa’s knees, having _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ read to him while mom slept. Nor can he forget the superstitions impressed on him as a young Ravager: _never answer a knock from the outside of the airlock, ‘specially not if all yer crew’s accounted for; never follow lights in the darkness past Galaxy’s Edge; never look for too long at a black hole, Petey, else you’ll lose something you can't get back._ This is an omen. He’s sure of it. But as there’s no time to analyse what it might mean, Peter settles for putting the strange flying thing out of his mind, as he’s hailed by every goddam ship on Terra and Yondu besides.

“We should probably answer them,” he says. Then, to clarify: “The humans, I mean. Last thing I need’s that smug blue butthole railing on me.”

Rocket rubs his little chin. “What would Gamora do?”

“She’d tell us it was too dangerous.”

“Hmm.” Rocket considers this point. Nods to himself. “But Gamora’s not here.”

“Damn right she isn’t,” says Peter grimly. He guns the throttle. On the screens, the _Milano’s_ glowing green beacon encroaches on the silhouetted landmass of the American subcontinent, millimeter by millimeter. “Answer the call, Rocket.”

Rocket snorts. “You answer it!”

“I can’t; I’m flying.”

“Let me fly then!” Peter’s glower expresses his refusal more eloquently than words. Rocket shrugs, hunching on his elevated seat and crossing his arms. “Heck, Quill. I dunno what to say to your humie buddies.”

“Well, neither do I! And they ain’t my buddies, buddy. I haven’t seen another human in two fucking decades, so forgive me if I’m a _little nervous_ about talking to one on the phone…”

“Wuss,” Rocket accuses. But when he’s kidnapped by an ugly blue alien and whisked away from everything he knows, _then_ he can dish out the insults. “Well, look at it this way. I’mma poke the receiver. But I ain’t talking none. So that gives you a choice - you can either suck it up and say ‘hi’, or ignore them when they ask if we come in peace, and get us shot out the air. I'm putting my life in your hands, Quill - so you better be careful with it.”

Peter’s eyes bug. He tries to concentrate on flying straight, glowering, and keeping an eye on Rocket’s outstretched pointer finger, the clawtip of which hovers an inch from the button, all at once. “Don’t you fucking dare -”

Rocket peels his black lips from his gums. On anyone else, the expression might have been a smile. “This is Peter Quill, calling home,” he says. Peter’s quoted ET too many times for his friends not to pick up on some of the lines (he wonders if it’s still showing at the old drive-in by grandpa’s, and if there’ll be space to park his M-ship if so.) Then Rocket flicks the toggle. Immediately, the holoscreen blotting the top left corner of Peter’s cockpit glass flares orange. It takes a moment for the image to consolidate. When it does, Peter’s pleasantly surprised. The lurid color turns out to be hair, belonging to the young woman center-screen. And by the stars, she’s a vision. A stunner if he’s ever seen one: all pouty pink lips and steel-cold, don’t-fuck-with-me eyes.

Peter takes those as a challenge.

His settles into his roguish leer like it’s a well-worn boot. He even churns out a wink - one guaranteed to make the ladies weak at the knees (or so he’s been informed by their angry husbands). “Why _hello_ there. Honey, if you’re the welcoming party, then lemme tell you I am more than happy to come quietly -”

Which is all he manages to say, before the display bursts into a scatterdiagram of pixels and reforms into another face.

“Sorry Nat,” it says. “Had to see the big scary alien for myself. And well - you’ll all be pleased to know that he’s nowhere near as ugly as the last lot.”

This face is older. And (to Peter’s disappointment) male. Not bad looking, as guys his age go, although there’s silver creeping around the edges of his goatee. Peter’s smirk fades nevertheless. “Why you gotta cramp my style, man? I was trying to have a conversation. Maybe ask her if she wants a drink; get some sweet local action, if you catch my drift!”

“Consider it caught, friend. Although you’d have more luck chatting up the raccoon.” Goatee’s grin is a blinding flash; it almost hurts Peter’s eyes with its square white perfection. How does a rock like Terra, uncivilized by the standard of the galaxy next door, have better dental care than the Ravagers? Oh yeah. Ravagers don’t have dental, full-stop - theirs is not a high hurdle to beat. Peter subtly ensures his smile isn’t toothy.

Oddly though, despite his joking, Goatee’s eyes betray fear. Fear of a far greater magnitude than Peter, in his opinion, deserves. After all, he hasn’t _done anything._ Hasn’t even landed yet, for chrissakes, let alone blown anything up! What’s this guy’s problem? Maybe he’s just jumpy about the whole ‘alien spacecraft’ shtick. Peter makes himself look unthreatening. He slouches in his chair and lets his hands guide the joystick as they see fit. Nothing to crash into out here - except that albatross. It’s drifted closer, catching the light in Peter's peripherals, which is odd because as far as he recalls, birds aren’t metallic. Maybe the sun’s glistening off the oil on its feathers?

“He’s not a raccoon.”

“Damn right I ain’t.”

Goatee blinks. Decides to pass that off as his imagination. “So it’s just you and your pet then? Back from a jaunt around the cosmosphere, no aliens involved? Who are you anyway - some richboy tinkering with toys? No, can’t be. I haven’t seen you at the annual get-together.”

Peter, wincing, makes to correct him on the first clause. Rocket beats him to it. “Hey, fur-face!”

“Hypocrite.”

“Shaddup Quill! Look, if I ain’t no dumb ‘raccoon’ thing, I sure as _hell_ ain’t no pet!”

“It talks,” says Goatee. He sounds a little faint. “The raccoon _talks.”_ But then, before Peter can hustle the spitting, snarling Rocket out of shot, his expression clicks to curious, like a kid who’s been shown a magic trick. “How does it do that? And it moves so well - animatronics? Buddy, whoever you are, I’m liking you less and less. Robots are _my thing._ And I don’t share my things -”

“I,” hisses Rocket, spit flecking his front fangs, “am not. A. Robot.”

“...Which is the first thing I’d teach any robot to say. You’re not convincing anyone, pal.” Goatee shoots Peter a nervous side-eye. “Um. I sure hope you installed the prime directive - you know, _thou shalt not harm humans_. Because lemme tell you, that’s a must if you’re mucking about with AI. Stops bad things of an Ultron-y nature occurring. I’d know all about them.”

Peter suspects smoothing the bristling fur over Rocket’s ears will only earn him a bitten hand. He resists the urge, holding one-handed to the back of the little guy’s jumpsuit instead, restraining him from clawing apart the monitor. “Maybe you oughta go do inventory in the engine rooms,” he says lightly. “I’ll sort this out.”

“Maybe I should build another flarking bomb and teach this… this… this _krutarkin’ son of a klyntar-shagger_ not to mess with me!”

“Hey!” Goatee raises his hands - not that Peter can see them, but he gets the distinct impression it’s occurring. From the corner of his eye, the albatross twists and yaws. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with being a robot. Some of my best friends are robots! Or, y’know, some of my best friends _were_ high-functioning AIs before evil robots deleted them and they downloaded themselves into a new entity who suddenly has a life outside of me. But I’m not bitter about that. Not one bit.”

Peter’s gape is bemused - but a little amused too. This guy could talk circles around _him._ “You what?”

Unfortunately, the feed stutters out of existence before Goatee can reply. The albatross performs a flip in frustration - although that might be a trick of the light, which glances from Peter’s holoscreen, scattering sunbeams through the cockpit’s glassy vestibule like he’s seated under a disco ball. Next moment, ginger bombshell’s back.

“I apologize on behalf of my colleague,” she says in clear unaccented English. Peter counts himself lucky that he hasn’t been picked up by the Russkis - last he remembers of Earth, Russia and America hadn’t been on the most amicable terms. “He will be disciplined in due course.”

“Kinky,” mutters Peter, at the same time Rocket hisses “He’d better be!” The woman does not seem amused. In fact, her expression is perfectly poised, projecting a blankness that borders automaton. Peter’d crack a joke about her being the robot, if he weren’t in danger of acquiring claw tracks in his forearm. Only her eyes give away her humanity, and those are fast and calculating, performing a rapid-fire inventory of Peter’s cockpit. More fool her. In the absence of Gamora, the _Milano_ has swiftly devolved to its bachelor-padesque, pre-Guardians state. Peter feigns ease, sinking into his chair and resisting the urge to minimize the holoscreen before she notices the holey pair of underpants tossed over one of the command relays.  

“No problem,” he replies. “Forgot about him the moment his mug left the vidscreen. Now what can I do for a lovely lady like yourself?”

“Identifying yourself would be a good start.”

That’s easy enough. “Name’s Quill,” Peter drawls. “Peter Quill. Do I get a name in return?”

The woman doesn’t pause in her reply, which is smooth as if it’s been rehearsed. From behind there comes a multitude of tapping noises, as Peter’s name is inputted and cross-referenced against every entry on the Terrans’ rudimentary holonet. “Agent Romanov of SHIELD.” So much for not being caught by the Russkis. Still, Quill can make an allowance if all their women are this hot. “Why have you come to earth?”

“Flying visit.” This is by far the most comfortable interrogation Peter’s ever had. No bright lights for one thing, other than the buttery Terran sun (just _the sun,_ he reminds himself. No ‘Terran’ prefix necessary, not here.) The convoy of camouflaged jets keep their distance, bobbing in a wide corral that encompasses both his and Yondu’s M-ships. Peter lets the _Milano_ steer herself on autopilot, engines dipping to a low wub. The albatross is the only contender for space in the immediate sky. It does look to be approaching, but even a curious bird will have the smarts not to fly headfirst into the _Milano’s_ jets - or so Peter hopes. “I come from these parts, y’know. Native Terran, born and bred.”

“‘Terran’?”

“That’s what the residents of the Galaxy next door call us. ‘Humies,’ if they’re being rude.”

Rocket snorts, scooting forwards on his chair to show Miss Romanov - Peter hopes she’s a miss, not that matrimonial vows have ever stopped him before - his snarl in high definition. “You think bein’ called ‘humie’ is rude? Why don’t you try out ‘raccoon’ or ‘rodent’ for size? Or ‘robot’?”

Peter holds his breath. Waits for the inevitable squawk of surprise. It doesn’t come - Miss Romanov is clearly of a more stable disposition than her coworker. She appraises Rocket coolly, a flinty portcullis lowered over her expression.

“Who - or what - are you then?”

Puffing out his fluffy chest, Rocket jabs a thumb at himself, narrowly avoiding clawing the clasp for his jumpsuit. “Name’s Rocket! This smokin’ bod and the brains behind it is the result of genetic experiments an’ a whole lotta implants.”

“Hm.” Romanov glances to one side, surveying something off screen. Peter could stare into her eyes all day, blue and brilliant and deadly as they are. He always did have a thing for dangerous women, and something tells him Romanov could be a challenge even for Gamora… Oh God. Gamora and Romanov. Fighting. Or better yet, writhing against one another in a wholly different context…

Time to steer his brain onto a different tack before this conversation gets awkward, as conversations tend to in direct proportion to the tightness of Peter’s pants. Luckily, Romanov’s next question scuppers any chance of arousal - “So who is in the pursuant ship? They won’t answer our hails.”

Peter’s smile sours. How does one begin to explain the jackass that is Yondu Udonta, to someone who’s never had the misfortune of being in his company?

“His sorta dad,” Rocket supplies. Peter’s jaw drops.

“What? No! What the hell, Rocket; that ain’t true -”

“So,” says Romanov, cutting through the burgeoning bicker. Her voice barely elevates, yet somehow she commands more attention than if she’d bellowed. “I suspect you wouldn’t want us to shoot him out the sky.”

“Heck, I’d like to have the pleasure myself -” Peter pales. “You’re not joking.”

Romanov’s smirk confirms. Peter gulps. If humanity has developed technology capable of invisible flight and repelling scanners, he can assume that their weaponry has evolved to match. They might not be on par with the Andromedarians in terms of intergalactic exploration, but this is their home-territory. They’re in their element, and confident with it. Peter doesn’t dare call their bluff, not when he and Yondu are outnumbered - if he and Yondu are even on the same team. He hasn’t seen hide nor implant of that blue bastard since he robbed him, after all. But that doesn’t mean he wants him dead.

“No,” he says hoarsely, ignoring Rocket’s groan. Rocket doesn’t get it. None of them _get it._ Yes, Peter’s glad to be away from the Ravagers. Yes, he’d be last to admit that he missed any of them, least of all the blue a-hole who’d abducted him. But unlike Rocket and Gamora, both of whom would gladly slowroast their respective tormentors-slash-fathers over a dwarf star, Peter doesn’t want Yondu out of his life forever. Call it naivete, hope, or blind and stupid optimism, but he still reckons there’s something redeemable there. He looks Romanov in the eye. “Don’t kill him.”

“Or us for that matter,” Rocket chimes in. He shakes his head at Peter, like he’s a lost cause, but keeps his attention on Romanov. “We ain’t here to cause trouble. Just gotta drop off some flowers on a grave. Heck, we can do a fly-by! Don't even gotta stop.”

“It’s a bit more complex than that,” Peter tries to argue.

Romanov silences him with a stern glare. “Tell this ‘sort of father’ of yours to come to a halt immediately,” she says. “You will not intrude one mile further into US airspace until you’ve been given full vetting -” Her earpiece twitters, words inaudible. Romanov’s mouth twitches up at one corner - the first show of genuine emotion she's dislayed. “-And Coulson’s had his debrief. Thank you, Stark. Now Quill? Tell your father he has one minute to answer us, before we strike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yes, this fic is still going! Sorry for the hiatus... Hopefully gotg2 will give me more inspiration. Also, apologies if my canon-facts are fluffy regarding Age of Ultron. I despised the film to the extent that I can't even bring myself to look up the plot for research purposes, so the references are from memory.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Tony makes contact, with even worse results.**

_Stark._

Peter thinks to the clock, which lays scattered across his cockpit like flak from a grenade, a few of its components still smoldering. Huh. Must be a coincidence.

The albatross skirts his periphery vision, a red-tinted blot in the endless blue sky. If Peter were paying closer attention, he might be surprised that his radar has yet to pick it up. The _Milano_ is calibrated to flag thermal engine outputs, but at close range it can scan for lifeforms without a problem. However, he’s busy with other important matters - i.e., dithering over jabbing the icon that shows Yondu’s discolored smile.

“C’mon already,” Rocket gripes. He kneads the arms of the copilot’s chair, claws gouging lumps of stuffing. His eyes are beady as a blackbird’s, darting from the scanner that reveals Miss Romanov’s invisible armada to Peter’s face, as Peter gnaws his lip and sucks his teeth and hovers his finger over the mugshot like he’s afraid it might bite. “Either do it or don’t. I don’t give no shits about whether ol’ blue dies, but watchin’ you make up your mind’s more boring than stealing the locking relays from the bathroom door -”

Peter spins on him, triumphant. “So that _was_ you!” But his distraction gives Rocket the chance he needs. Again, he ducks under Peter’s arm, and again, he bats at the icon, letting Yondu’s callsign fritter to pixels then reform in an animated rendition of his M-ship cockpit.

For almost ten seconds, Yondu doesn’t notice. He’s busy chattering to his second - Kraglin Obfonteri: ratty, grungy, and smelly as the day Yondu dragged him out the Hraxian gutter. “For the last time, I don’t care about them humies! Ping Quill again!”

Kraglin’s exasperated retort - “I’ve pinged Quill twenty times this minute, sir,” - is lost to Yondu’s exclamation as he notices Peter’s face is now dominating his view of the Atlantic ocean. “Quill!” For a second, he looks jubilant. That fades. Peter winces, as the captain’s gleeful grin reforms into a scowl. “Goddammit boy, the hell d’you think yer doin’? Stealin’ from me, runnin’ away…” He doesn’t add _from home._ Doesn’t need to. “This the thanks I get for raisin’ ya?”

It’s exactly what Peter didn’t want to hear. Especially as it’s compounded by his knowledge that somewhere, on some level, beneath those stratified layers of pride and exasperation, the Ravager Admiral had been upset by Peter’s leaving. Maybe even (dare he say it) _hurt._

He doesn’t care, he reminds himself, setting on his fiercest glare in return. “That’s the thanks you get for _abducting me_ and _forcing me sign a contract when I was eight that says half my earnings go to you._ Asshole.”

Yondu looks offended. He presses a hand to his chest, blue vibrant against the motley, dirty red. “That was to fund childcare! And no one _forced_ ya to sign. You wrote yer name of yer own damn will.”

“On a contract written in Xandarian! That I couldn’t read! And which you told me was the Secret Santa name list! And don’t lie, you krutarkin’ slagger - I know those units went into booze.”  

“Which you started guzzlin’ soon as you was twelve, like any other Ravager!”

They would’ve continued in that vein for hours, were it not for the scrolling Xandarian time sigils on Peter’s chronometer, informing him that they're swiftly approaching Miss Romanov’s deadline. “Yondu,” he hisses, fists balled around the joystick. “Man. Look, _please._ Just listen to me. For once. We’re surrounded by Terran military. Outnumbered. Who knows what sort of weapons they’re stockpiling. We have to turn ourselves in.”

Besides Yondu, Kraglin makes agitated ‘cease and desist’ gestures at the screen. Peter is perhaps too hasty in ignoring them - he should know better. Sure enough Yondu puffs up, bulking out his coat’s heavy shoulderpads and glowering into his camera as if contemplating a whistle. “Ya think I can’t hold my own, boy?”

“No,” answers Peter smoothly. “I think you can’t shoot them down faster than they can shoot you. That wasn’t a challenge -” This said with all due haste, as he spots a silver-capped canine glinting from Yondu’s smirk. “Just an observation, that’s all. You and me gotta go quietly, man. It’s the only way.”

Rocket mutters something about them _not being in this dumbass situation in the first place_ _if it weren’t for Quill's Thanos-blasted sentiment_ \- but when Peter turns to glare at him, he pretends he never said anything at all.

 

* * *

 

“I am going to kill him.” If Gamora looks oversized in their ship’s cramped hold,  Drax is practically gargantuan. If he flexes, he might crack their pod and bare them to the vacuum - in which case they’ll all die. They’re parsecs from the nearest star-system, let alone the nearest rescue outpost. But Gamora won’t let that stop her. She’s spoken to Death once or twice, thanks to her not-father’s wooing. She’s sure that skeletal minx would lend her a couple of days, if only so she could make good on this threat. “I am going to fillet every inch of him, Drax. These are not optimal flying conditions. This is not an optimal ship. This is not an optimal _mission,_ and it is all Peter’s fault.”

If only he’d waited. Then Gamora and co. could’ve accompanied him in the relative comfort of the _Milano,_ rather than squeezing themselves into a wastepod, crudely doctored for outer space flight. They could’ve finished the job on Xandar, rather than walking out mid-contract and earning another black mark besides their names. They would’ve had no reason to contact Yondu, who’d promptly betrayed them and shot off on Quill’s trail, and may well be skewering him on his arrow as they speak.

Chances are, by the time they reach them, Quill and Rocket will already be dead. There’s Ravagers after them now - not to mention the myriad dangers that come with navigating the Silver Spiral, dodging between Nova stockades and angry Asgardians. No way can her two puniest teammates survive that. Not without her to protect them. But so long as she hasn’t seen Quill’s lifeless body, cold and stiff as his mother’s, there remains hope. Gamora clings to it. She eases them out of the rumbling, rattling hellpit of the wormhole and into unfamiliar space.

Of course, there’s the problem of the Nova alarm-system to deal with. But Gamora is the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. She doesn’t avoid traps; she springs them.

Grimly glancing to where Groot is cushioned in Drax’s cupped hands, Gamora shakes sweaty hair from her eyes and fixes them on the bottomless black ahead. Twenty lightyears from their exit point, there is a small blue blob in a small eight-planet system. That’s twenty minutes with a basic factor-ten lightspeed drive - all they could equip this crummy rustbucket with without risking it vibrating apart in transit. Twenty minutes in which Quill could be whistled through, made into stew, or probed and mutilated by his own savage people.

They’d better get a move on.

Gamora clenches her jaw. She aims her pod’s nosecone earthwards, and pushes the throttle to max.

 

* * *

 

Honestly. If Natasha thinks she’s blocked Tony from accessing the SHIELD comms system - the system he built! - she isn’t as clever as Tony gives her credit for.

No, he hastens to correct himself, just in case she’s added ‘mindreading’ to her perpetually expanding skillset. She most definitely _is_ as clever as he gives her credit for - which means she’ll have guessed that he’s eavesdropping. Which means she knows he can’t just let this simmer and wait for Mr Quill to sort it all out, not when he’s an unknown agent in all this, his loyalties in question. So if Natasha knows what he’s planning, and has yet to stop him… Well, that’s practically _permission_ , isn’t it?

Tony grins. Kicking his booster thrusters into gear, he spirals closer until he can see the faces of Quill and his totally-not-a-robot-or-a-pet through the glass. The man is engrossed, gesticulating at something on his windscreen, face blotchy with what is either anger, fear, or a hearty dose of both. As Chitauri-spewing portals have yet to manifest, Tony decides, in the name of science, to see how far he can push him.

Quill’s ship has stopped, in accordance with Nat’s request. The thrumming engines have swung down, moored to the ship’s main body within five gyroscopic balls that Tony longs to dig his fingers into, pull apart and put together again in a thousand different ways. They menace the ocean with their orange glow, keeping Quill hovering in place. The other ship creeps up behind them, moving slower now, like a predator that senses the chase is won. Tony ignores it. He flies under the ship’s cockpit, staying out of sight - and noticing the name, _Milano,_ written in English. Yep, they’re definitely the shoddiest aliens he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. But they’re not trying to kill him, which is a bonus.

He moves through air with the ease of a diver in a submerged cave, fanning his fingers against the wind. The sound filter on his headset reduces the boom of the ship’s engine to static, but Tony’s convinced they’re loud enough to drown out his own thrusters. As a result, the thump of his feet off the _Milano’s_ hull-plates is the first warning Peter gets.

 

* * *

 

“What the flark was that?”

“What the flark was what?”

_Thump._

“That! Don’t tell me we’ve got a wing coming loose… Yondu, dammit. I thought you weren’t gonna fire on me.”

“I ain’t! But Quill, I gotta tell ya - you got one hell of a barnacle.”

“The hell is that geezer on about?” Rocket mutters, to which Yondu protests that he can still hear him and Rocket declares that he’s well aware. Peter tunes them out. He minimizes the camfeed, ignoring the Ravagers’ griping, and turns his head to the ceiling. The thumps have become rhythmic, like his ship’s being used as a Celestial bongo drum, or - more likely - someone in magnetized boots is stomping over his hull. He tracks them to each wing, then back to the engines They don’t stop to tamper, as far as he can tell, conducting an exploratory sweep of his ship while she hovers. Peter’s tempted to barrel roll. Let’s see if his barnacle can cling on then! But he’s painfully aware of the sheer number of weapons trained on them right now, as well as Natasha’s order that they not encroach another inch into US airspace.

“Right,” he growls, transferring full control to Rocket, who grasps his throttle with gleeful hands. “I’m headed up top.” Sure, they’re five thousand feet above the ocean, in gravity - but his rocket boots, while not intended for long-haul flights, are good in a pinch. Peter intends to kick this barnacle off his flank with those same rocket boots powered to full-force.

He doesn’t get the chance. Because while he’s unstrapping his seatbelts (stupid Nova health-and-safety procedures; stupid Gamora for insisting they adhere to them, so as to set a ‘good example’ to the impressionable young Groot) the footsteps mark his unwanted hitchhiker’s forwards passage. They clang by overhead. Each crash makes Rocket’s whiskers twitch. His ears track the noise as Peter turns his head, scanning the _Milano’s_ cockpit ceiling, trying to place where the hitchhiker is.

The hitchhiker answers that question for himself. A red and gold face (or at least, what Peter _thinks_ is a face) pops over the windscreen. It’s metallic, he notices. Tossing back the harsh glare of a mid-afternoon, near-equatorial sun. It looks to be carved to the approximate dimensions of a human head, albeit with half-finished features - a minimalist’s portrait of mankind.

Peter gawps at it. He’s seen stranger - far, _far_ stranger. He’s occasionally slept with stranger too. But if there was one place he wasn’t expecting more aliens, it’s Earth.

“What _are_ you?” he breathes.

The metal man reveals that his humanoid likeness extends past the chin. He boasts fingers too. These are waggled cheerfully at Peter, whose neck is cricked far enough back to hurt and whose jaw hangs loose, one hand upflung to cushion his eyes from the glare off that creepy mask.

Another ping from his console. Peter dabs at it without looking. His fumbling fingers swipe the wrong button, magnifying Stark’s face until it fills the viewscreen, obscuring the choppy froth of faraway waves. He’s smiling. It looks infuriatingly smug. “Hello, sailor. Fancy seeing you here.”

As far as cheesy lines go, that’s almost on par with Peter’s own. He scowls. “That’s you? You’re the albatross?”

Confusion doesn’t suit Stark nearly as much as self-satisfaction. “The albatross?”

Peter decides to waive that one. It’s easier than explaining his thought process to a Terran and a bunch of baffled aliens, who have no idea what a lucky albatross is, let alone what it signifies. Seems like the traditional meaning's wrong in this instance: Peter is feeling pretty unfortuitous, and he hasn’t even shot the bastard. “Why are you on my ship? Get off! You’re gonna put boot-marks on her…”

“I can _get_ ‘im off,” says Yondu from the blinking fraction of Peter’s screen he now occupies. Despite only having five pixels to his name, he is somehow still grinning. “Y’know. If you want me to.”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Ooh dear.” Stark grimaces. “Am I interrupting something?”

Sass _and_ cheesy pick-ups. Peter dislikes this guy more and more. However, there’s no chance for him to prepare a riposte; Stark’s too busy clinging to the _Milano’s_ lovingly-charred hullplates, because a volley of laser fire has just whizzed past his ear.

“Oops,” says Yondu. He doesn’t sound sorry.

Over the comms, there filters the distinct sound of Kraglin berating his captain, and his captain laughing. Peter grits his teeth. He ignores them, just as he ignores Rocket bleating that _those coulda hit us; where does that blue a-hole think he’s aimin’?_ and the warning squeak from his readouts that means Miss Romanov’s ships have drawn into a hostile formation. He focuses on Stark instead. “What d’you want?”

Sweat glosses Stark’s cheeks. “To say hi! Tell your friend to quit shooting!”

Rocket bristles - because him taking offence is exactly what Peter needs right now. “Watch your mouth! They ain’t no friends of ours! Just like I ain’t nobody’s _pet_!”

Overhead, the red-and-gold man twists, craning over one shoulder. Heavens know why he bothers, when there are feeds integrated into his helmet. Peter watches their colors flash over his face in reverse, a mirrored image that highlights Stark’s silver-glinting goatee. (It looks ridiculous, he decides. He totally isn’t stroking his own ratty ‘tache-and-beard combo, cultivated through several weeks without shaving rather than whatever painstaking plucking process Stark braves every morning.) “That’s good. It looks like my guys’ve decided the same.”

Peter pulls up another readout. Swears colorfully, in languages from every planet between Alpha Centauri-IV and Zog, when he sees the barrage of missiles spiralling towards them. “What the hell? Make them stop! I thought we were doing this peacefully!”

Stark snorts. Despite that he’s in the line of fire, he doesn’t seem worried. He kicks back to bask, using the _Milano’s_ sloped cockpit as a scaled-up chaise longue. “Why should I? Your not-friends were the ones who shot at me.”

“But they didn’t _hit_ you!”

“Sure seems like they tried!”

“Uh,” says Kraglin, tinny over the commlink. “We got incoming.”

Peter would’ve thrown up his hands, if he weren’t storming back to his seat and retaking control, wheeling the _Milano_ about as Rocket readies to shoot the bogeys out of the sky. “Aw c’mon, tin-man. Don’t you have a heart to go find?”

Stark, unfortunately, clings on. There’s a faint clang as his fingertips magnetize, attaching him to the _Milano_ like a gecko to a wall. “Wizard of Oz reference! A little vintage, but still a classic. Don’t worry though, Mr Quill - once we’ve shot down those idiots in the jet behind, you and me can sit down civil-like and sort this out over a glass of something malted. What do you say?”

“Oh, they ain’t aimed at us?” Rocket relaxes in his seat. His claws go slack around his joystick. “Cool. Stand down, Quill.”

“What? No! Yondu dammit, make some evasive maneuvers -”

“Uh, ‘scuse me? When did I die and name you cap’n?”

Stupid Ravager Admirals and their stupid self-professed laws about _not taking orders from nobody_ . Really, it’s Yondu’s own flarking fault when the first missile slams into his _Warbird’s_ back burner, sending the ship zigzagging towards the ocean. But that doesn’t stop him hollering at Peter like he’s the one who plunged a knife into his back, while Kraglin screeches in the background: “Dammit, Quill!”

“Captain-captain- _captain!_ ”

“We ain’t done, you hear me, boy?”

“We’re fallin’!”

“You stole from me!”

“Cap’n, you might not’ve noticed, but -”

“An’ you better believe there’s a reckonin’ coming yer way-”

Sploosh.

Peter pries his face from his hands long enough to turn the _Milano_ seawards. “Goddam _idiots._ ”

 

* * *

 

Yondu’s still swearing when he and Kraglin haul themselves out of the _Warbird’s_ popped emergency evac-hatch. He’s cussed Peter out until he’s blue in the face - although that's kinda redundant. And now, hands propped on hips, surveying the smouldering, floating husk of his prize M-ship, he assesses the situation and comes to the obvious conclusion: “This’s Quill’s fault.”

Kraglin’s usually all too eager to agree with anything that lifts blame off his shoulders. Especially when Quill’s named scapegoat. But hell. He’s cold, he’s on a hazardous unknown world, and his pantlegs are wet. Getting wetter, in fact, as waves beat the gradient of the _Warbird’s_ wing, splattering him in saltspray.  “No sir,” he growls, stalking to the half-submerged nosecone and plonking his bony ass down. “It’s _yours._ ”

Yondu either doesn’t hear him, elects to ignore him, or is so unused to his second backtalking that the words don’t register. He stomps to his engine panel, yanks it open, and spits out a flurry of untranslatable clicks when he sees the seawater sloshing about inside. Honestly, they’re just lucky that Terra’s water bodies don’t tend towards the acidic. “When I get up there, I’m gonna flay him. _Slowly._ Startin’ with his big toe and workin’ my way up…”

Kraglin opens his mouth. He fully intends to tell his boss that if anyone deserves flaying it’s him, and that maybe, _just maybe,_ he can empathize with Taserface and the mutineers. Thankfully, for the sake of his own continued existence, the Terran ships choose that moment to converge.

Yondu steps out to meet them, grin as big as it’s menacing. “Well howdy!” he hollers, voice rasping at a counterpoint to the thud of waves-on-ship. The _Warbird’s_ dipped another inch since they struck sea - but the interior pod hasn’t been compromised. So long as that stays sealed she’ll retain her natural buoyancy. “Nice lil’ lovetap you sent us there! How’s about I return the favor?”

The hermetic seal around the _Warbird_ means that he can’t hear Quill stabbing his comm button, yelling that he’d better not so much as maim a single Terran or there’ll be hell to pay.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll crush all your ornaments! I’ll blow on your implant! I’ll - I’ll post all those blotto blackmail pics of yours on the Xandarian infoweb! I’ll -”

“I don’t think your not-friend’s listening,” says Stark mildly. He kicks one idle foot, metallic boot treads folding over his thrusters. The vibrations wobble through the glass, as if they’re inside a bell being tapped by a tuning fork. Peter shakes his fist at him.

“Quit it!”

“Quit what?”

“ _That!”_

“Uh, guys?”

Stark drums his heels like a jubilant schoolchild. While the blank mask reveals no secrets, his expression on the commscreen is nothing short of devious. Peter resists the urge to punch it - if only because this ship is his ticket back to the open stars, and if he puts a crack in the glass there aren’t going to be any local pit shops where he can source Flengoffan-forged spaceware. Especially as they’re likely to be lugging Yondu and Kraglin along for the ride. Peter isn’t looking forwards to that. Being in close proximity with the Ravager Admiral has led to him getting punched and whistled at as of late, and fear does hell for his complexion. But he ain't leaving Earth to deal with those jackasses. He might not have missed much about his planet, bar his mother and the smell of fresh-baked cookies (which, oddly, has never been replicated no matter how many offworld bakeries he visits). But they humanity sure doesn't deserve _that._

“Please,” he says, working his jaw from side to side to stop it tensing up. “Get off my ship. I need to go stop Yondu killing your friends.”

“Lil’ ol’ blue? Take down a SHIELD formation? On his lonesome?” Stark chuckles, looking every bit the self-confident magnificent asshole - very much like the man who draws his fingerguns at Peter in the mirror, in fact. Oh, how Peter hates him. “You must be kidding.”

They can’t hear the whistle. The exploding ship is harder to miss.

“There,” says Peter grimly, as Stark squawks and scrambles upright, magnetic boots clamping on for balance, and Romanov’s frigid face pings back onto his screen. “Now will you let me go tell the old blueberry this is all a big misunderstanding? Or do I gotta roll you off, then fly down there and fry you with my backburners?”

“I could outfly this hunk of junk any day,” comes the instinctual reply. But overhead, the suit rubs its face in an approximation of where Stark’s moustache sits. He looks contemplative. “Okay. The two of us go, together. Don’t forget that you’re under SHIELD custody, young man.”

“Stark,” snaps Romanov. “You are not an elected operative -”

Stark waves her off. “I’m an Avenger. And right now…” His eyes tick to the side, no doubt taking in the wreckage of the SHIELD ship as it spirals towards the sea, Yondu’s arrow flying victorious loop-the-loops. “...I’ve got some Avenging to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Everything I write turns into Peter and Yondu sorting out their awful familial relationship. Don't worry, I'm going to kickstart the Quill/Stark once the other Guardians arrive! Then we can delve a bit deeper into the Sceptre plotline.**
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> **You all should know how much I love comments by now. Leave me some?**
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> ****

**Author's Note:**

> **Y'all know I'm a slut for comments. Leave me some.**


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